The Seduction of Dean Winchester
by Catslynw
Summary: Alastair offers Dean a deal. Alternate ending to Death Takes a Holiday, features a little more one on one quality time between Dean and Alastair, a glimpse at Sam's playtime with Ruby and one alarmed Angel. AU - mostly.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – The Reunion

Dean hurried through the alley, making his way back to his and Sam's hotel room. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. Where was Sam? Where was Pamela? Why hadn't she woken him up? They'd saved the seal. They'd saved one of the reapers, luckily the one Dean actually gave a damn about, and Tessa was back on the job reaping souls and sending them on to… whatever awaited them on the other side of death. He hoped for Cole Griffith's sake that whatever came next was good, that he hadn't played a part in sending the kid onto something worse. Still, Cole was beyond his reach and no longer his problem. His only problem now was how to get back into his body. They'd finished the damn mission, so why was Dean still all Patrick Swayze? Why was he still astral? And why in the hell was he alone? Sam had vanished, presumably going back to his body. At least, that's what Dean hoped had happened. If Alastair had captured Sam again, well, that wasn't precisely a happy thought, now was it. Then nothing associated with Alastair was ever –

Dean's thoughts stuttered to a halt and he froze in his tracks as he passed a side alley and saw Alastair just standing there, waiting for him with a serene patience that reminded him eerily of Castiel. A hint of a smile played around the demon's lips. "You can't run, Dean," Alastair said with that inhuman calm that characterized the oldest and most powerful demons. "Not from me." Dean began to back away as Alastair stalked slowly toward him, the smile now open and blood chilling. "I'm inside that angsty little noggin of yours."

Dean turned to run, but Alastair was simply there, in front of him again before he'd gone three feet. "You can't get away, Dean. You're all alone, and there's no one to interrupt our little reunion this time." Alastair reached a hand toward him and Dean backed away hastily, nearly tripping over his own feet in his blind urge to distance himself from his former mentor. Sam, where are you? Cas? Pamela? Somebody…

"He's not coming, Dean. None of them are. Your _friends_ have more pressing engagements at the moment."

"What'd you do to Sam?" Dean demanded, his alarm growing as he realized that, somehow, in this form, Alastair could see into him, could literally read his thoughts. Or maybe it was just forty years of intimacy talking. After all, who knew him better than Alastair? Who really knew him?

Dean tried to use his nifty new ghost powers, tried to fling a milk crate at Alastair's head as he backpedaled, but he couldn't think straight, couldn't concentrate on anything but his terror as a hand clamped onto his shoulder, halting his backward progress. He tried to vanish, tried to blip out of there, but nothing happened and his panic grew, making his heart pound – something he shouldn't even be able to feel in this form. But then, Alastair shouldn't be able to grab him, either. Cas!

"Relax, my boy. Relax. I only want to talk."

Dean shoved at Alastair, struggling to get away. Though his panic made it impossible to concentrate, that same panic lent strength to his ghostly form, lending him corporeality as he shoved at the demon. But it was no good. Alastair was stronger than Dean when he was in his own human body. In this form he didn't stand a chance. In a second he'd been backed against a wall of the alley and pinned there.

He gasped for air, his nonexistent lungs straining in his equally nonexistent chest. He vision tunneled in and out of focus. He hit, clawed, even tried to bite. And still Alastair held him in place, one hand clamped to his shoulder, the other held almost gently around his throat. Gradually, the panic receded though the fear remained. He stood there, shaking. It took every ounce of will he had left just to meet Alastair's eyes, just to stay locked on that hellish gaze when all he really wanted to do was close his eyes and pray for it to be over. But he wouldn't drop his gaze from the demon's. He wasn't weak. No matter what had happened in Hell. No matter what Sam thought, he wasn't that weak. He couldn't be.

"There," Alastair said when the shaking had died down to a slight tremble. "There, there, all better now." His squeezed Dean's shoulder ever so slightly. His tones were low and even. Calming. The kind of voice that a human might use to soothe the fears of a wild animal. Dean bristled, anger driving away some of the mind-numbing horror.

"What the Hell do you want, you son of a bitch?"

"I told you, Dean. I want to talk to you."

"Oh yeah, because that was real obvious the way you kept shooting me full of rock salt before," Dean snarled.

"Well, you would hardly expect me to stop in the middle of breaking a seal for a private little chat." Alastair grinned. "They may be lemmings, but those reapers are quite slippery, difficult to hold onto. Still, I do apologize for not giving you my entire focus, dear boy. I know how much you crave my – undivided – attention." Dean gulped, the movement causing Alastair's hand to shift roughly across the skin of his throat. "You have my whole and unimpeded attention now, however. I assure you." The demon smiled, a strangely fond look coming into his stolen eyes.

Dean's anger found new focus as he thought of the dead reaper. They didn't deserve to be slaughtered any more than anybody else did. They might be obstinate to the point of stupidity, but so were most ordinary people. Reapers weren't evil, just working stiffs doing a necessary, if unpleasant, job. "Guess things didn't go quite according to plan this time," he growled. "Looks like this is one seal you lost, you slimy bastard!"

The demon shrugged. "True, but the situation's not a total loss. After all, son, it reunited our happy little family."

"I am NOT your SON!" Dean screamed. Rage broke from him a one massive psychic punch, knocking Alastair away. The demon laughed as he stumbled back a few steps before regaining his balance.

"That's my boy," he said, evident satisfaction in his raspy voice.

"I am not your boy!" Another psychic punch rocked Alastair back on his heels, but it moved him no further. Worse, the expenditure of energy left Dean feeling enervated, utterly drained. He sagged back against the alley wall, gulping for air, his whole body shaking once more.

The demon merely grinned. "No, I suppose you think not. I suppose you think of yourself as John's boy. Daddy's little soldier."

"Shut up," Dean demanded, but he could get no force behind the words, just an aching desperation that even he could hear and that the demon would savor. "Shut up, damn you."

"But you're not his boy, son. Not really. Just a little soldier in a larger war. Daddy's blunt little instrument."

Dean flinched hearing his own words echoed by the master torturer. But then, that was what the torturer did best, inflicting the most pain with the least effort. Pain, more often than not, brought on by the subject's owns flaws, own fears, own secret desires. It was the first rule of the rack – know your subject better than you know yourself. And Alastair was a master.

"Did you ever genuinely believe that he loved you, Dean? Were you ever foolish enough to think that you were more to him than Sammy's devoted watchdog? Come now." The demon smiled knowingly, his eyes pools of mockery, and Dean felt his own gaze drop involuntarily. It was getting harder and harder just to stand. To meet Alastair's gaze as an equal, unafraid and unashamed, that was an ability Dean had lost more than a decade earlier. Lost the very moment he picked up the razor.

Alastair closed the gap between them. A hand caressed Dean's jaw, surprisingly gentle, and Dean felt himself beginning to tremble again, like a bird held fast in a small boy's unpredictable and deadly grip. Still, he could not raise his eyes. Could not speak. Alastair had no such handicap.

"John Winchester loved Sam, was devoted to Sam, spent every waking moment trying to find a way to save Sam from his destiny. You were just a tool, just one more weapon he could use to protect the son he really loved. Even when he sold his soul to Azazel to save your life, well, he did that for Sam. He knew that losing you would destroy whatever tenuous connection he and Sam still had, that he'd lose all influence over Sam. You were his only hope, Dean. You were the only one who stood a chance of reaching Sam, of stopping the boy from embracing his demon powers. And you failed. You failed Sam, you failed your daddy, and you failed yourself. You failed."

Unbidden, images flashed through Dean's mind. Watching Sam exorcize a demon with his mind. Watching Ruby do his brother's bidding. The look on Sam's face when he said that Dean was holding him back. Waking up in motel room after motel room alone, knowing that Sam was out there somewhere using his demon blood to fight a war he considered Dean too weak to fight anymore. Oh yeah. He'd failed Sammy. And if his dad had thought that Dean could keep Sammy from going down that road, then he'd failed Dad too. Damn Alastair for being right about so many things.

The demon had paused while Dean's emotions roiled and bubbled just beneath the surface, but now he went on. "John never really loved you, and even you mother… well, maybe she did love you when you were little. But who can ever really know, and she wasn't exactly little miss innocent in all of this. She made the deal after all."

Dean bristled, his head snapping up, He jerked his chin out of Alastair's grip and swung at the demon, only to have his arms grabbed and pressed tight to the wall on either side of his head. He growled wordlessly, his anger almost too great for expression.

"Now, Dean, don't be that way. You know it's true." Alastair's eyes rolled up in their sockets, rolling over white like some insane counterfeit of a great white shark going in for the kill. "Mary set in motion the events that destroyed your childhood, that made a ruin of your whole life. And in the end, when she had one last chance to tell you how much you really meant to her, well, she really said nothing at all, did she?"

"Shut up." It was hardly more than a whisper. Almost a sob.

"Yes, yes, touchy subject, I know. Still, I suppose there have been other women in your life. Lots of them. And yet, did any of them actually want you, really want you? No. Not Cassie, to whom you bared your soul and told the unvarnished truth. Not any of the scores who came before or after her. Hell, even angel-radio girl forgot all about you the moment she didn't need your help anymore. I mean, you might have expected her to at least pop in for a quick hello, a thank you, even just to let you know that she was okay. After all, you'd been willing to go back to Hell for her, a practical stranger, and what did you get? One night of passion and then… nothing."

Dean was far more disturbed than he wanted Alastair to know by the silence from Anna. He closed his eyes, desperate to escape from Alastair's searing gaze. The demon saw so much. Too much. It was what made him Hell's master torturer. And he wasn't finished, not by a long shot.

"But I suppose none of that matters, none of that really hurts as much as knowing that your own brother doesn't really want you around. Sam, for whom you died, Dean. Sam, who claimed he'd do anything to save you. He abandoned you as soon you were out of Hell and _safe_. Looks like all that crap about how much he needed you with him was just guilt talking. I mean, once the threat of Hell was gone, he couldn't care less. You hadn't even been back a day, hadn't even been back with him for twelve hours, when he was already sneaking off to meet with his demon slut. Never mind that you were alone and unprotected. Never mind that you were weak and disoriented after your time in Hell. Never mind that _you_ needed _him_ for a change. He didn't care. He didn't even hesitate, because you just didn't matter that much." Every word was like a physical blow, and Dean felt himself shuddering under the onslaught. "No, the only one who's ever really wanted you, who's ever really stuck by you is me. Even the angels just want to use you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't your little angel buddy tell you, Deano? Didn't Castiel let you in on the big secret? It's about you, after all."

Dean knew he shouldn't respond, shouldn't react in any way to the demon's taunting, but this – damn it, this hit far too close to home. The angels kept saying they had work for him, that God had work for him, but… why him? Why had they saved him? He didn't deserve it. He was just… he didn't deserve it. Dean stared up at Alastair with wide eyes, barely breathing, trying to not to let his desperate need for the truth show, but his silence was all the answer that the demon needed.

Alastair leaned closer. Dean cringed away, but the demon didn't stop until they were cheek to cheek, his lips caressing Dean's jaw and ear in a revolting parody of a kiss. "Dean, the angels snuck into my bower and spirited you away because you were a seal, my boy. You were a seal."

Dean reeled under the impact of Alastair's words. It couldn't be true. It couldn't. Why would he be a seal? He was just a guy. Sure, he was a hunter, but aside from that he was just an ordinary guy. How could he possibly be a seal? It didn't make sense, but neither did God sending an angel into Hell to rescue someone who'd sold their own soul. Selling your soul was like slitting your own throat, and wasn't suicide supposed to be the ultimate sin? The only unforgivable sin?

"You're lying," Dean said, his voice gone gravelly in his fear and confusion. "No way I'm a seal."

"Oh, but you were, dear boy," Alastair said, drawing back far enough to look Dean in the eyes. "You were."

"You're insane," he insisted, but a quiver in his lips and a tremble in his voice betrayed his doubts.

Alastair's smile was a strange juxtaposition of the predatory and the sympathetic as he seemed to drink in Dean's pain. Here, it was a metaphor. In Hell, it had been literal fact. His hands tightened on Dean's biceps, the nails digging in like razor-tipped claws. Then he raised his eyes to the night sky just visible above the alley walls and intoned, "By his deeds shall you know him. By the strength of his love shall he come. For the righteous man shall march willingly into the maw of the beast. He shall fall into damnation and break his back upon the wheel of eternal torment. Rivers of blood shall flow from his wounds. His spirit shall drown in blood, and the seal shall be rent asunder."

Dean was shaking violently by the time Alastair was done. He felt sick, ill down to his core, and he had a feeling he was about to find out whether or not it was even possible to throw up in this form. He sagged in the demon's grip, those claw-like hands the only thing holding him up. No. God, no. He wanted to protest, to deny the demon's claims. He didn't want to believe, but he'd known Alastair just as long as Alastair had known him. He recognized the truth when he saw it, the rapturous delight on the demon's face. Dean had done it. When he'd broken in Hell, he'd broken one the sixty-six seals. They were halfway down the road to Armageddon because of him. That was why the angels had come for him. Not because he deserved salvation, but because they were trying to save a seal. They'd failed.

"Why?" he asked, meeting the demon's once-more human eyes with his own. "Why did they bother pulling me out? Why didn't they just leave me there?"

Alastair shrugged, seeming supremely unconcerned. "Who can understand the minds of God's bully boys? Who could possibly want to? They're nothing but vermin, holy rats with wings." The demon sneered. "They probably just expected you to help clean up the mess that they really created in the first place when they cast my Father out of Heaven. They used you, Dean, and they're still using you. They'll use you up, if you let them. Don't let them. Don't be Heaven's patsy anymore. Stand up for yourself. Tell Heaven to go screw itself!"

The words rang frighteningly true. Dean had felt used, had felt threatened, had felt betrayed – even by Castiel. From where he stood right now, from this vantage point in time, Heaven didn't seem so much better than Hell. Certainly no less ruthless, no less violent and unforgiving. And where did that leave humanity? Where did it leave Dean? Answer: nowhere. As so often was the case, fear and uncertainty fed Dean's anger. He wouldn't have believed it was possible to hate Alastair more. He had been wrong.

"And what makes you so different? You say they're using me, but if you're telling the truth, then that's all you did too. You used me to break one of the seals, used me for your own personal chew toy, damn it! So what makes you any better than the holy rats with wings?" To Dean's astonishment, Alastair released his hold on his arms and took three measured steps back. But being released so abruptly was not nearly as shocking as what the demon had to say.

"Because, my boy, I still want you."

Dean gaped at him. "What? What the hell are you talking about? That you want to torture me some more? So what! A demon wants to torture a hunter, that's hardly shocking."

Alastair clucked his tongue like an exasperated mother, sounding eerily like Dean's vague memories of his own mother, in fact. "Son, don't you see? You broke the seal. You fulfilled your destiny. You've already done everything I needed you to do, every last thing. So I don't need you anymore. By all rights you should just be one more bug to squish on my highway back to Hell. But you're not. Because, even though I don't need you anymore, I still want you Dean. I still want all that bright promise and ingenuity at my side. I want you. And I know what that means to you, to be wanted, to be loved, to be truly desired."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 -- The Offer

Dean swallowed, his jaw clenching and unclenching, stomach acid rising the his throat. It was yet another sensation he would never have expected to be able to feel in this form. "If you want me back in Hell so bad, why don't you just kill me and get it over with? Why all the monologuing?"

Alastair smiled wryly.f "I would, but it's too chancy. You fulfilled your contract when you went to Hell the first time, my boy. Even with everything you've done, all the _marvelous_ sins you've committed, there's no guarantee where you might wind up when next you die, especially with those conniving, untrustworthy angels sticking their noses into business that doesn't concern them." The demon's lips curled back, baring the slightly yellowed teeth of the poor bastard whose meat he was wearing. "They'd keep us apart out of spite alone. No, the only way that I can be sure of getting you back is if you sell your soul to me."f

Dean gawped at Alastair, his mouth opening and closing in a way that he just knew made him look like a particularly dumbass fish. Was he joking? He had to be joking! "You're out of your twisted mind!" Dean exclaimed, actually stepping away from the wall and advancing on the demon, anger forgotten in sheer outrage. "After forty years of Hell, forty years of playtime with psychopaths, why would I ever willingly go back to that? Why would I go back to the rack? Not to mention the whole being ripped apart by hellhounds again is slightly less than appealing. I thought Meg was whole bucket-loads of crazy, but you… _you_ take the cake!"

"Tut tut," Alastair said, his tone dripping with patient condescension. "You entirely misunderstand me, Dean. I could almost believe that you do it deliberately. First off, the hellhounds are entirely optional. Lilith was always a melodramatic, sadistic little bitch. Not that there's anything wrong with a little healthy sadism. I'm sure you remember how much fun that can be." He smiled darkly, beginning to walk around Dean in slow circles. "No. No hellhounds. This time, it doesn't have to hurt at all. And as for the rack… your time on the rack is over. It has been from the moment you first picked up my razor, from the moment you first stood in your rightful place at my side. That's where you belong Dean, at my side. Hell isn't punishment and agony, not for you. Not anymore. I carved you into a new animal, but the carving is over. My work on you is done. But our work, our work together, that's just beginning."

Alastair crept to a halt just behind Dean, making the skin between his shoulder blades crawl. Though he could not see him, Dean knew that the demon had leaned in close because he could feel the bastard's hot breath on nape of his neck. He shuddered, but when he tried to turn and face his tormentor, he found that he was held in an invisible vice, helpless to defend himself. Not that he'd had much success with that in this form to begin with. Alastair's will was strong, so very strong.

"Dean, hell is where you belong now, where you've always known you belong. Hell is your true home, as it is mine. Think of it Dean, an eternity of safety, of love, of knowing just how much you're wanted. No more fear, no more pain, no more loneliness and doubt. No heartless angels making impossible demands, no _loving_ family tying you in unforgiving knots. Just peace and security and _the_ _work_. And all you have to do, is say yes. Just say yes, Dean."

Once again, outrage conquered fear, and Dean found himself spluttering as he searched for words scathing enough to convey his disbelief and disgust. "Let me get this straight, you're asking me to sell my soul in exchange for… what? A one way trip to Hell? Somehow, I always thought Hell was the consequence, not the freakin' reward!"

Alastair came back around to face him head on. "Depends on your point of view," the demon replied. "But as it happens, I do have something to offer you. Something to sweeten the pot, to ease the guilt of leaving dear little Sammy behind. I can offer you far more than any pathetic piss-ant crossroad demon ever could. The one thing you really want."

"Oh yeah, and what's that?" he scoffed.

Alastair's eyes rolled upward and the whites shown as if afire when he leaned in and whispered his damning offer: "Sammy, whole, healthy and completely free of demon taint."

The world spun crazily and for a moment Dean lost the ability the breathe. His vision grayed over. Everything was dim and distant. My God, he thought. My God. He did nothing. He said nothing. He could barely think as Alastair's monumental proposal slowly sank in. Dean's soul for Sammy's… salvation? Was it even possible? And if it was possible, what then?

"How? Why? Why would you…" He trailed off, unable to finish a coherent thought.

Alastair's forged onward. "Because I know you Dean, I know you better than you know yourself. After all, we spent forty years together, and all that time, all those long, agonizing years on the rack, what was the one thing you used to comfort yourself? Let's face it, he was all you could talk about."

Gray gave way to red as a bloody ire suffused Dean. Rage gave him power, and the spells holding him fast shredded like so much tissue paper. His hands, solid as any noose, wrapped around the demon's throat. "NEVER! I never talked about Sam in Hell! I never betrayed him that way! Never!" His fingers tightened, tightened, and they fell entwined to the alley floor. Dean lost track of everything but the rage pouring out of him, the rage pouring into Alastair as he clawed at the demon's throat, his eyes, anything he could reach. Then Alastair laughed. He laughed, and Dean lost track of even his rage as the world spiraled in upon him and darkness took him.

Awareness returned slowly. With it came a weakness so profound that Dean labored even to remember his own name. Sight, hearing, all sense of where he was returned reluctantly. Putting himself back together after being shot by the rock salt had been like fitting the bits of a puzzle back into place. Piecing himself together now was like trying to rebuild the Impala out of wet cardboard. Nothing would hold its shape. Nothing would bear any weight. His very existence teetered on the brink. Reality wavered. Then, as his sense of his surroundings grew, Dean knew immediately that Alastair was still there, hovering beside him. The demon was, in fact, using his own immense powers to help Dean's form regain its semblance of life. Help. From a demon. Where was Sam? Where the hell was Pamela? Why hadn't she called him back to his body? This last confrontation with Alastair had exhausted Dean, had literally shattered the fragile bonds holding his ghost self together. He didn't believe he would survive another.

Part of him wanted to beg, wanted to plead with Alastair, not for his life, but for the torment to simply stop. But when he could finally speak, no pleas nor prayers would come, only one hot denial. "I didn't talk about Sam. I didn't."

Alastair raised his hands in a placating gesture. "No, no you didn't, Dean. That's true. You may have screamed his name till your throat tore itself to shreds and your ears bled, but you never talked about him." Smiling gently, the demon patted the place where Dean thought his shoulder might be. "Still, he was always right there in your thoughts. And I told you, I'm inside that angsty little noggin of yours, so you might as well have been whispering every word straight into my ears, sweet nothings, like a lover. It was all that mattered to you, that Sammy was safe, that you'd saved him, that he would be okay. Sure, he was still in peril, still tainted by demon blood, still hunted by Lilith, but you'd saved him, and somehow you knew he'd be okay. Your sacrifice would make everything okay because it had to. Even in Hell, you had hope because Sammy, well, he was your hope of Heaven. Wasn't he? The one truly good thing in your nightmare existence."

Dean trembled, taking an unwilling comfort in the demon's reassurances. What Alastair thought of him shouldn't matter, yet, somehow, it did. And that terrified Dean more than all the rest of it put together.

"He was your hope of Heaven," Alastair repeated, "your one shining light. But then… then the angels _rescued_ you from Hell. They dragged you back to this craphole, and that's when hope finally died. Turns out that little Sammy, well, I guess he wasn't saved after all. Or very grateful for that matter. I mean, you died for him, damned yourself for him, and the one thing you asked was that he stayed human, that he rejected his demon powers and all the dark delicious temptation that came with them. You sold your soul to save his, and the moment your back was turned, the very moment, he threw it all away. He tossed your sacrifice aside like it was nothing, less than nothing."

Dean realized abruptly that silent tears had begun to ghost down his cheeks, but he couldn't find even the desire to brush them away. What did it matter if Alastair saw him cry? The demon had seen it before, had seen far worse. No part of Dean's pain held any mystery for Alastair, as his words proved again and again.

"Sam, he chose a demon and demon power over his own brother. And then, when you came back, he just kept right on choosing her. No matter what you did, no matter how much you begged and pleaded, no matter how much he was hurting you." Dean cringed away as Alastair cupped his face in his long hands and brushed at the tear tracks on his cheeks with his thumbs. "I guess your pain just never meant that much to Sammy after all, Deano. I guess you never meant that much. All you ever were before you died was the shield at his back. Then, after your resurrection, you became the thing _holding_ him back. And poof, no more hope for Dean. But I can fix it."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 -- Sweetening the Pot

Dean looked up and met Alastair's eyes, unwillingly drawn in by the demon's words. "How?" he whispered, letting just the tiniest hint of eagerness creep into his voice. "How can you fix this?" Dean knew he had to stall, had to buy time for rescue to come, for Sam and Pamela to find him. And, fight it though he might, part of him wanted to hear the answer, wanted to know exactly what Alastair was offering.

The demon didn't laugh, didn't gloat, but a slight curve of his lips, a new glisten in his stolen eyes betrayed his reaction. He'd hooked Dean, and he knew it. Now all he had to do was reel him in, or so he thought. "I can take it all away, son. The demon taint. I can make it like it was never there."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Time travel?" he demanded skeptically. "Tell me you're _not_ talking about time travel."

Alastair rolled his eyes, and for a moment human and demon were in complete agreement. "No, leave the science fiction to the little cloud hopping pansies. It's a waste of time anyway, never accomplishes anything."

"The how could you possibly fix what Azazel did to Sam?"

"You think Azazel was more powerful than me, boy?" the demon demanded, his hand on Dean's shoulder clamping down painfully. "Think again. I can pull that demon taint right out of little Sammy's blood, strip the demon blood itself right out of his marrow. No more blood, no more psychic powers. No more psychic powers, no more Ruby and no more temptation. He'll be what he always should have been, pure Grade A human. Nothing that Ruby or any other demon can do will change it. Her trick knife aside, she's just one more puling, pathetic little bitch with no real power. What I'd do, no one can undo, demon, human or angel."

Time seemed to slow down as Dean considered Alastair's proposition. Fix Sam. He could fix Sam. This was no snake oil enema that the demon was offering. It was a real, honest-to-God answer. If anyone could do what he was claiming, Alastair could. The master torturer was power, so very powerful. In Hell, only Lilith was feared more. On Earth, Dean's old mentor seemed unstoppable. Sam's psychic powers couldn't touch him. Their genuine demon-killing Ginsu couldn't hurt him. Even the angels couldn't harm him. If it hadn't been for Anna drinking down her angel juice when she did, Alastair might very well have killed Castiel in that little barn brawl they'd had. Castiel had certainly seemed alarmed enough by just how little power he had to stand against the ancient demon. Castiel…

What Dean wouldn't give to be certain he could trust the angel. He wanted to trust, wanted to believe that Castiel had his back as he'd once believed that Sam did. And yet, every time he started to think that Castiel was someone he could count on, someone who actually gave a damn about him, something happened to shake his new found faith. Alastair said the angels were just using him. Even Tessa said not to trust Heaven, that the angels had nothing good in store for him. No second chance.

Still worse, no matter how he tried, Dean could not forget the moment early in their relationship when Castiel had threatened to send him back to Hell. Bad enough when the angels as a whole had threatened to "hurl him back to damnation," but for Cas to go along with their bully-boy tactics... For Cas to try and intimidate him with that threat a second time, after everything they'd been through together, it had hurt. And Anna, the one angel who understood what it meant to be human, the woman who Dean had begun to care for, whom he'd thought he actually he might –

It didn't matter. None of it meant a damned thing. In the end, it was just him, by himself, facing down his own personal tormentor and not doing it very well. He was alone now, more alone than he'd ever been.

Sam. He had to think of Sam. If Dean was crazy enough to say yes to Alastair's fantastic proposal, Sam would be left alone and defenseless. He'd be completely vulnerable with no Dad, no Dean and no demon mojo to protect himself with. Ruby would jump ship the instant Sam was no longer her psychic little wind-up toy. They hadn't spoken with Ellen since the Devil's Gate fiasco, hadn't seen Jo in longer. Ash was dead. Bobby was a true friend, but he was just one hunter and an aging one at that. They had no one else. Sam would be wide open to attack.

And Lilith wanted him dead, big time.

"Lilith…" He didn't even realize that he'd spoken aloud until Alastair replied.

"Not a problem, Deano. With no psychic mojo, Sam's no threat to her. There's no reason for her to keep coming after him and every reason for her not to piss me off by screwing with our Deal. Sam could move on, my boy. Face it, your brother is no John Winchester. With no mojo, no brother-shaped shield to hide behind and no demon slut to back him up, Sam will have to let this whole revenge thing go. He could have a normal life, go back to school, raise a family. It's everything you ever wanted for him," Alastair said, still gently cupping Dean's face in his hands. "It's everything you need, and I can give it to you. All just like that."

Dean felt himself swaying, his emotions spinning. His skin tingled where Alastair touched it. "No. No, way. It's too dangerous. He'd be unprotected. If Lilith did decide to come after him despite the deal – No!" Getting his feet under him, Dean scrambled away from Alastair, but he collapsed back to the pavement before he'd gone three yards. "This is insane. It's insane!"

Rising to his own feet, Alastair threw his hands in the air and clapped them over his head. "Fine, fine! If it means that much to you, I'll throw in the Colt, as an extra special bonus. All the protection Sammy could ever need."

Dean surged to his feet, shocked, angry and, well, _shocked_. "What?! You have the Colt! You have the Colt? But I thought that Bella gave it to Lilith? How did you –"

"I don't have the Colt, Dean, but I can get it easily enough. It's not a problem." His eyes glinted sardonically, as if he were enjoying some joke that Dean couldn't quite identify.

"But why?" Dean demanded, bewildered. "Why would you do this? It's crazy! Why would you willing give us back a weapon that can kill demons, actually kill them? Why should I believe you? What do you really get out of this?"

"You, Dean. I get you." Alistair moved up very close to Dean, well into his personal space until they were nose to nose, eyes locked. "I want you back at my side. I want my boy."

"I am not your boy!" He tried for pissed off and adamant, but his normally husky voice came out a little too high pitched and squeaky for his peace of mind.

"Oh, but you are. You are my boy. John may have been the daddy of your human body, but we both know that I'm the father or your soul. You belong with me, Dean. You always have and always will. Come home, Dean. Come home to me. All it takes is one little kiss."

He was drowning. He was standing in the middle of an alley, bodiless, needless of air and nowhere near a body of water bigger than a bathtub and he was drowning. It was, literally, one Hell of an offer. Sam whole. The Colt back. A truce with Lilith. And the work… oh, dear god, the _work._ Dean's quaked, suddenly far more terrified of himself than he was of Alastair. He couldn't want that. Not that. No. Run. No. Run. Have to run.

He turned to flee, but Alastair anticipated him. The demon's eyes rolled up white as he growled out a curse, freezing Dean in mid-step. Then he sank his bony fingers into Dean's arm and, gripping it tight, began to drag the hunter back down the alley, back in the direction of the funeral home where the demon had held his aborted ritual.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 -- Death: Back in Business

Sam hurried back to Pamela's side with a glass of water from the bathroom tap. He was certain that her demand for a drink had meant something stronger, but he didn't keep booze on him, and Dean had begun hiding his liquor after Sam brought up his drinking during their oh-so-special encounter with a Babylonian wishing well. Pamela was sitting on the edge of Dean's bed, one hand on his forehead as she muttered something in what sounded like Latin.

He stopped beside her, setting the water down on the nightstand between the beds. He knew Pamela had to be aware of his return, but she remained entirely focused on Dean. Well, mostly focused on Dean. As Sam looked down, he saw that the psychic's left hand was still pressed against the wound in her abdomen. The demon-wielded bowie knife had left behind a large rectangular hole in her flesh, a hole from which blood should be pouring, a hole that should have left Pamela writhing on the floor in agony. Instead, she sat beside Dean with apparent calm, only the whiteness of her knuckles and a slight tremor in her hand on his forehead betraying her unease. Swallowing against the tightness in his throat, Sam reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. Before he could say anything, she shook her head firmly and shrugged off his hand. Sam got the message loud and clear. Do not interrupt.

He bit his lip as his eyes scanned the hotel room one more time. The place was trashed. Lamps and chairs lay smashed on the floor, the shower curtain hung by only a single hook. Candles were everywhere, most tipped over, a few still burning even in their new horizontal states. How the place had managed not to go up in flames was beyond him. Just as glad to have something besides Pamela's wound and Dean's MIA status to think about, Sam hurried around the room putting out the still lit candles and straightening up the mess. It would have to be done eventually, and God knew Dean wouldn't do it, so he might as well do it now. Dean. Crap. Where was Dean? Why hadn't he come back to his body? Don't think about it. Just don't think about it.

Besides, Dean's body wasn't the only one that Sam had to worry about. Eventually, his cleaning brought Sam toe to toe with the remains of the demon that had attacked Pamela. The man was tall and muscular, mid-to-late thirties. Sam searched his pockets reflexively, but could find no I.D. of any kind. No driver's license, no credit cards, hell, not even a library card. Whatever name he'd gone by before he became a demon's meat-suit, there was no sign of it on him now. Guilt for the stranger's death ate at Sam, but he knew, deep down, that there was nothing he could have done differently. The moment that Sam exorcized the demon, the man had dropped like a stringless puppet. Clearly, he'd already taken mortal wounds while being ridden by the demon. Nothing that Sam could have done would have saved him. He'd been a walking corpse reanimated by the power of a hell beast, nothing more. The fact that Sam had used his psychic powers to send the demon packing ultimately made no difference. The guy would have been just as dead if Sam had stuck with tradition and used a devil's trap and a few key Latin phrases. He'd have been doubly dead if Sam had used Ruby's knife. No, Sam couldn't have saved him. Still, it hurt when he lost one. He was so tired of losing.

Sam gazed down at the man quietly, his heart aching for the family that would almost certainly never know what had become of a beloved father, son or brother. He was contemplating how they were going to dispose of the body, or whether they should just leave it behind, when he heard Pamela groaning behind him. He turned to find that she had gotten off Dean's bed and was making her way toward the bathroom. She hung on to nothing, used no furniture or walls to guide her. Sam was perpetually amazed by the blind woman's ability to navigate unfamiliar spaces in such a way, but he was still very glad that he's picked up most of the debris from her fight with the demon. Even a psychic might trip over a broken lamp.

Sam made his way to the bed and gazed uncertainly down at his brother's pale face. Dean was breathing, his chest rising in slow, even exhalations, but there was no other sign of life. It reminded Sam jarringly of the coma in which his brother had lain after being mauled by Azazel and then run over in his beloved Impala by a demon-driven semi-truck. Even knowing that Dean would accuse him of being a girl in his most scathing tones, Sam couldn't stop himself from reaching down and resting his fingers against Dean's cheek. The skin was alarmingly cool. Wake up. Wake up, damn it. With a gulp, he turned away and went back the dead man on the floor. He could handle that. He searched the man's pockets one more time, just to be safe. Still nothing. He rose to his feet as he heard Pamela move back into the main room behind him. Hunched over slightly, still clutching at her stomach, she made her way slowly to the space between the beds and sat down on the side of Sam's bed. Her hand shook as she reached for the water he'd left for her, and she knocked the glass over and it rolled off the nightstand and shattered on the floor.

"Shit!" Pamela pulled her legs up onto the bed and thumped her head against the wall behind her, and Sam hurried to her side.

"Are you okay?" he asked, worried though she still seemed to be in only minimal pain.

"Oh, I'm just fabulous," she snapped. "Get me a damn drink, Sam." He nodded, but when he would have headed back to the bathroom, she lunged forward and snagged his arm in a firm grip. "Not water."

"I don't – "

"There's a flask in my purse," she explained, releasing his arm and giving him a weak shove. "Hurry up."

Sam hurried. There were, in fact, two flasks in Pamela's bag, but only one smelled of whiskey. He suspected that the other one was holy water. Returning with the whiskey, Sam closed Pamela's shaking fingers around the flask and helped guide it to her mouth. After the first swallow, she shook off his assistance and leaned back against the wall. "Damn it. Damn everything."

"Pamela, I – "

"Don't. Just listen to me, Grumpy. Your brother is in trouble."

"What can I – "

"Don't interrupt me! Just listen, damn it! I don't have a lot of time here." She took another swig from the flask, gasped in a few breaths and then took another.

Sam waited anxiously, blood pounding behind his temples.

"I don't know why, but somehow Dean's gotten himself trapped in the astral plain. He's not answering my summons. It may just be a temporary thing, but then again it may not. Either way, I won't be around to bring him back out of it."

Sam wanted to argue, wanted to tell her that she'd be fine, but he knew it was a lie. And lying to a psychic: talk about pointless. He nodded, swallowing against the lump growing in his throat. Pamela was dying and Dean might not be far behind. How had it come to this so quickly?

"You're going to have to bring him back, Sam. He's wandering in the veil and he needs someone to guide him back out."

"I'll go look for him as soon as – as soon as – but I can't just leave you here like this," Sam said desperately.

"Go look for him? Sam, don't be any denser than you have to be. Remember the part where he's walking piece of fog? Even if you stumbled right over the top of him, you'd never know he was there, and he might not be able to see you either. No, you're going to have to bring him back my way. Now, repeat after me: Animum vult decepi, ergo decepiatur. Vis, vis, vis."

"I – "

"Say it, Sam!"

"Animus vault…"

"Animum vult decepi," she corrected.

"Animum vult decepi."

"Ergo decepiatur."

"Ergo decepiatur," he repeated.

"Vis, vis, vis."

"Vis, vis, vis."

"Now, say it all together," she instructed.

Sam took a deep breath and concentrated. "Animum vult decepi, ergo decepiatur. Vis, vis, vis."

Pamela jerked, her spine arching and then slumping again. Sam reached for her, but she knocked his hands away. "One more time, so I know you've got it." Her voice was losing strength, her words taking on the tone of ground glass. Sam decided not to argue. He repeated the Latin, careful to get each syllable just right.

"Animum vult decepi, ergo decepiatur. Vis, vis, vis."

"Good. Now, when you say it, place one hand on his forehead and one hand on his heart and concentrate. Concentrate on reaching out to him, like you're trying to make him hear you over the sound of a roaring train. Got it? Got it?!"

Sam nodded, knowing that somehow she would see his response, eyes or no eyes. "I've got it, Pamela, but I can't. I'm not – "

She scowled at him. "You going to try and tell me you're not psychic, Sam?"

"I'm not like you. I'm not psychic like you. I can't do this."

"You have power, Sam. More than me. A lot more. And you're his brother, that will help call him to you. Just don't give up, and don't waste any time. The body can't survive without the soul. I don't know why he hasn't come back yet, but if he doesn't come back soon, his body will die. Even in this town."

Pamela started coughing, suddenly, her whole body shaking and Sam saw flecks of blood appear on her lips. Alarmed, he looked down and saw blood pouring out of the wound in her abdomen and over her clenched fingers as she tries to staunch the flow.

"Pamela, I'm so sorry." The words were entirely inadequate. He knew that, but there was nothing more that he could do. "I'm so sorry."

"Stop."

"You don't deserve this."

"Yeah, I don't," she snapped. "I told you I didn't want anything to do with this. Do me a favor? Tell that bastard Bobby Singer to go to hell for ever introducing me to you two in the first place." Sam couldn't see her eyes behind her ubiquitous sunglasses, but the whiteness of her lips and the taut lines of her neck screamed her fear louder than words. "But what the hell, right? Everybody's got to go sometime." Pamela reached out with her free hand and grabbed onto his shoulder. Then, pulled herself forward, she leaned her head on his shoulder and spoke softly, directly into his ear. "I know what you did to that demon, Sam. I can feel it inside of you. If you think you have good intentions, think again."

She drew back again, and Sam gaped at her. How could she… no, of course she knew what he'd done. Of course she knew exactly what was inside him. He sat there, shaken, and watched as the psychic gasped her last breaths. All too soon, she was still, and Sam knew that Tessa had come for her. He didn't bother closing her eyes. It seemed wrong, somehow, to close them when knowing him and Dean had already stolen her vision from her once. Pulling himself together, Sam laid her out on the bed and covered her with a blanket, sunglasses and all. Then, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, he dropped onto the edge of Dean's bed and called for his brother.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Again. And again. Still nothing happened. Panic rose inside Sam like bile. His stomach churned with it. He was alone with two corpses and his brother's slowing cooling body. HE had to do something. He considered calling an ambulance, knowing that a hospital might be able to help keep Dean's body alive until it could be reunited with his soul, but how was he supposed to explain what had happened to Dean, let alone explain the two dead bodies? He contemplated going out and looking for Dean despite Pamela's instructions, contemplated calling Bobby for help, even contemplated finding the nearest toy store and buying another Ouija Board, but none of that seemed likely to do Dean much good.

No matter how much Dean wouldn't like it, Sam knew what he had to do. Pulling out his cell phone, he hit the speed dial. She answered on the third ring.

"Ruby? I need you!"

* * *

_Note: The Latin that Pamela uses to both place the boys into the astral plain and pull them out again translates roughly as, "Since the soul wishes to be deceived, let it be deceived." The _vis, vis, vis _is harder to translate precisely, but as near as I can tell it means, "let it be," or "As I wish, let it be."_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 -- De Profundis

Dean fought like a werewolf, scratching and clawing. He dug his heels in as Alastair dragged him down the street toward the funeral home, but he had no more substance than a puff of wind and his resistance slowed the demon not at all. Alastair, apparently all talked out, utterly ignored his favorite student's struggles. As they crossed an intersection, Dean could see the building down the road, the symbols inscribed on its walls glowing in the moonlight like fluorescent paint. He jerked back. He had to stay out of that building. He didn't know why he was so certain, but he was certain nevertheless. If the demon got him inside that funeral home again, he was screwed. All remaining thought of accepting Alastair's deal fled as Dean saw a figure waiting in the recessed doorway of the building. It was one of the torturer's bully boys, the one Sam had slugged with such apparent glee. Fabulous, demonic backup with a grudge. It was just what he needed.

As Dean watched, Alastair signaled to the lookout, and the other demon turned and went back inside the building. As soon as he'd disappeared from view, Alastair raised his left hand palm outward and began chanting under his breath. The symbols glowed suddenly brighter. While the older demon was distracted, Dean focused all his energy on one solid kick to the back of the demon's right knee. With a startled grunt, Alastair went down, and Dean turned and bolted back the way they'd come.

"You think it's going to be that easy, boy?" he heard Alastair call after him, but Dean didn't turn to see just how closely he was being followed. He just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, speeding along as if pursued by hellhounds. Not that hellhounds could possibly be any worse than what was breathing down the back of his neck. Having Alastair behind him was like feeling the fires of Hell for the first time, that acid heat burning his very soul. He skated around a blind corner and ran smack dab into a man in a trench coat. Ran into. Not ran _through_. Ran _into_. What the hell! When he would have fallen back, arms came up and seized him tight.

"Dean!" Dean blinked madly, trying to focus past the panic licking at his heels. "Dean?"

"Cas?"

"Dean, are you – " Castiel broke off as Dean's legs buckled under him, and he dropped to his knees right up against the angel's legs. Then Castiel's eyes widened, his nostrils flaring wide like some cartoon bull.

Abruptly, Dean was thirty feet away and kneeling on the roof of some kind of warehouse. "What the – " Looking down, Dean realized that Cas had somehow teleported him out of the street but had not come with him. Below him, the angel stood statue-like, his back straight and shoulders squared as he faced off against Hell's chief torturer. "Alastair."

"Well, if it isn't my favorite little sanctimonious prick." Alastair grinned. Even from this distance, Dean could see all of the demon's teeth in his shark-like smile. "Junior varsity, of course," the demon clarified.

"What do you want, hellspawn?"

"Oh, I think we both know what I want," he drawled, slowly circling his way around Cas. The angel stood stock still, following the demon's movement only with the equally slow turning of his head. For his part, Alastair never took his eyes from the angel, but Dean could feel the demon's attention zeroing in on him, trying to locate him all the same. He gulped and shrank a few feet further into the shadows cast by a neighboring building.

"You cannot have Dean Winchester. Leave this place immediately."

Alastair laughed as he came to a halt between Castiel and the building on which Dean was hiding.

"He is mine _de profundis_. Who is going to stop me from taking what is mine?" Alastair demanded. "You? Don't make me laugh. You celestials, so full of yourselves."

"_Corruptio optimi pessima_. He is the Lord our God's _ab incunabulis_. Go from here, now, or face the consequences," the angel's voice had dropped several registers, but Dean had no difficulty hearing him. He just wished he could understand everything that Alastair and Castiel were saying. He really should have paid more attention in Dad's Latin lessons. The words seemed to echo in his very bones, understood or not, and all he could think was, "Go, Cas! Go!"

"What consequences? Face it kid, you don't have the juice to – " Alastair broke off as Castiel launched himself at the sneering demon. One the angel's fists took Alastair in the jaw with a mighty undercut, but the torturer was barely moved. Castiel quickly followed up with a flurry of strikes, and Alastair seemed to take an involuntary step backwards. The demon growled, a purely animalistic sound, and a sharp flash lit the air around them. Dean covered his face instinctively, though the light barely hurt his ghostly eyes at all. When he looked again, they were rolling together on the street, momentarily moving faster than his eyes could follow as they exchanged blows.

Dean felt a moment of panic as he watched them struggling together. The only other time he'd ever seen Castiel fight had been against Alastair, and that time the angel had lost. His attempt to exorcise the ancient demon had completely failed. In fact, it had only been Dean's timely use of a crowbar that had stopped Alastair from killing Castiel, or so it had seemed to Dean. If the demon got the best of the angel now…

Dean scuttled along the edge of the roof, trying desperately to keep them in sight. He could tell that Alastair was trying to get a firm grip on the angel, but Castiel moved like a feral cat, leaping in to strike and then darting away before many of the demon's blows could connect, never allowing the torturer to get a firm grip on him. Looked like he'd learned from his previous mistakes after all. Dean almost breathed a sigh of relief, but just when it seemed that things were going the angel's way, Alastair shot himself at Castiel. They connected with a sound like a sonic boom and then crashed through the wall of the very warehouse on which Dean crouched. Dean's anxiety rose as they disappeared from view.

Judging by the shaking of the roof under his feet and the sounds vibrating up from below, the battle raged on unabated. Years of living as a hunter had taught Dean his way around industrial buildings, and it took him only seconds to find the roof's maintenance hatch and climb through. He had to know what was happening below. He had to know if Cas was okay. Dean found himself on a catwalk high above the warehouse floor. Below him, some kind of raised conveyor belt with hooks depending from it crisscrossed the otherwise open space. Oblong bundles the size of human bodies were stacked along one side of the room, but Dean couldn't tell what precisely was in them. All he knew was that, whatever they were, they were flammable. Several were burning already, but the concrete floor and metal walls appeared to have stopped the fire from spreading. The fumes were probably toxic, but that was hardly likely to bother a demon, an angel or a pseudo-ghost.

As Dean watched, Alastair struck Castiel a blow that sent the angel spinning, his trench coat flaring as blood sprayed across the concrete floor. The demon rapidly closed in, lifting the angel off his feet and slamming his unprotected back directly onto one of the hooks. Castiel dangled there, seemingly dazed, his dress shoes kicking at the air a good two feet above the ground. Blood poured in a stream, pooling beneath his swinging legs. Dean raced along the catwalks and adjoining ladders, descending as rapidly as he could. He had to help Cas!

Alastair spat, phlegm and blood splattering against Castiel's chest. "I wish I knew to how to kill you for good, but all I can do is send you back to Heaven. Still, your vessel is hamburger and by the time you crawl your way back, Dean Winchester and I will be long gone." The demon clenched one hand around Castiel's throat and placed the fingertips of the other hand spread across the angel's forehead. "_Omnipotentas de potestatum invoco. Omnipotentas de potestatum invoco! Aborte terrar, nunc angelo ominum sequentum. Domine expue!_" Castiel jerked like a fish on a hook, his hands coming up to close on the demon's arms, but the demon was clearly the stronger of the two, and the angel's efforts amounted to nothing. Faintly at first, and then with growing speed, light seemed to seep from every pore of the angel's body, shining like the Northern Star against the shadowy darkness of the fire-lit warehouse. Alastair continued without mercy, every word ripping like a whip into the angel's helpless flesh. "_Domine expue! Deum ad imperium remita!_"

"No!" Dean yelled, screeching to a halt and clutching at the railing of the catwalk, now halfway between the ceiling and the floor of the warehouse. Rage and fear, not for himself but for the angel, ripped forth like a blade, cutting at the demon.

Alastair whirled, releasing his hold on Castiel and ceasing the dark exorcism. His eyes, pure white, snapped upward, focusing immediately on Dean. "Ah, there you are, my boy." The demon's crooked fingers twisted in the air, as if turning a doorknob, and Dean felt the catwalk fall away beneath him. He thought he screamed, but he couldn't be certain, too much happened too fast. The next thing he knew, he was crawling from beneath a wreck of twisted iron grills and sheared off metal rods. If he'd been in his body, the fall would have killed him. Instead he felt only disoriented and shaken as he gaped at the destruction surrounding him.

Alastair emerged around a massive pile of debris and stalked toward him like the predator he was. "Come along, Dean. We've wasted enough time playing with – " The demon's words stopped short as a broken off bit of chain struck him across the face. Dean's hands fisted, the non-existent muscles in his arms straining as he concentrated with everything he had. Wreckage rained down like hail on Alastair, and he reeled from blow after blow. Then the demon growled, his hands slashing through the air as if parting a curtain, and all of Dean's projectiles ricocheted off an invisible wall, zinging away to land against the warehouse walls where they embedded themselves in the metal sheeting. Dean sagged, collapsing to hands and knees, utterly spent.

Alastair laughed, spat more blood from the mouth of his wounded meat-suit and then continued to laugh as he advanced on Dean. "_Auribus teneo lupum,_" he said fondly, then he grinned darkly. "Fun is fun, Deano, but we've got someplace else to be. Now – "

Once again the demon was cut off, this time by the appearance of Castiel directly in his path, beaten, battered and bloody. The angel stood erect despite his wounds. As Dean looked on in awe, he saw those mysterious shadowy wings appear in the air behind Castiel, seeming to strengthen the angel even as they shielded Dean from the demon's hellish gaze. Alastair actually recoiled, radiating fear, a sight Dean had never thought to see. Yet the fear only seemed to enrage the demon further. He snarled, and Dean saw Castiel brace for another attack. Then, out of nowhere, a lightning bolt crashed through the roof of warehouse, making the air around them sizzle and pop. The bolt engulfed the demon, and he vanished, winked out of existence as if snatched away by the very hand of God.

* * *

The exorcism is taken directly from the episode _On the Head of a Pin_. Other Latin phrases are as follows:

_de profundis_: from the depths

_Corruptio optimi pessima_: The corruption of the best is the worst

_ab incunabulis_: from the cradle

_Auribus teneo lupum_: I have a wolf by the ear


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 -- Emergency Response

For a moment Dean's vision went white and all sound and sensation seemed to drain out the world. When it returned, it returned with a vengeance. His head pounded, his body muscles ached and he wasn't even wearing his actual body. Good God onf a bicycle, let's not do that again!

"What the Hell?!" Dean exclaimed, gawping at the spot where Alastair had stood only an instanft before.

"Guess again," Castiel replied. If Dean didn't know better, he'd swear that the angel sounded positively smug. He focused in on his companion and saw that the shadow wings were gone. Before him stood only the battered form of a slight man in a bloody trench coat.

"Did you do that?" Dean asked tentatively, still stunned by the rapid fire turn in events.

"No." Castiel had his back to Dean, but now he turned. His face was a mess. Yet, as Dean watched, the torn skin and bruised flesh began to heal itself. Gashes knit themselves together, swelling subsided. Even the angel's clothing repaired itself. The blood, soaking suit and trench coat, first dried, then flaked away and vanished into nothingness before striking the warehouse floor. It was like watching time reverse itself. But while the external signs of injury vanished, the angel remained clearly exhausted from his battle with Alastair.

"So, um, if you didn't do that, then who did?"

"An ally." Castiel turned away again, cocking his head to the side in that bird-like fashion of his. Dean found himself wondering if all angels moved like that or if it was only his angel.

Dean snorted. "Who's your backup? Thor or Zeus maybe?" He opened his mouth to ask a further question, he honestly wasn't sure what, when he heard the sound that had obviously diverted Castiel's attention moments before. Sirens.

"Uh, Cas?" The angel didn't change position, but Dean could sense a shift in his attention from the sirens to his… whatever the hell he was to Cas. "I think we better get out of here." The angel did not respond. Dean walked around to stand in front of him, and saw that Castiel's eyes were closed. Reaching out slowly, Dean tentatively placed a hand on the angel's shoulder. "Cas?" The blue eyes, so piercing, opened and fixed instantly upon Dean's face. He gulped. "We've uh, we've got to get out of here. There are people coming. Five-O and stuff."

"I must rest for a moment. My internal injuries are still healing." His head gave another of those strange little tilts. "What is Five-O?" he asked curiously.

"The police. They can't find us here, Cas."

"They will not."

"But – " Dean turned sharply as he heard voices coming from outside. The fire was still burning, still providing most of the light inside the building, but now there were also flashes of red and blue strobe lights coming in through the clerestory windows. The voices grew louder, and one of the sliding warehouse doors rattled and shook but didn't budge in its warped tracks. "Cas!"

"Calm yourself, Dean. They will not see you. May I remind you that you are still disembodied, a state we must remedy as soon as I am able."

"Yeah, but they'll see you, damn it!" Dean grabbed the angel by the arm and dragged him toward an isolated corner of the room, behind one of the larger piles of wreckage. It was like trying to move an uncooperative mountain. "Cas!" With what sounded suspiciously like a sigh of exasperation, the angel allowed himself to be moved. Just as Dean got them to a more sheltered spot, one of the man-doors, framed into in a larger freight door, burst inward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then two firefighters came through the door wearing protective gear with Greybull Fire Dept. emblazoned on the front and pulling a fire hose with them. The hose came on with a roar, and they turned the high-powered stream of water on the flaming debris. More firefighters poured through the opening behind them, one shouting orders as the others spread out, clearly searching the warehouse for potential victims. More than one stopped and stared upward, clearly shocked by the still smoking hole in the metal roof. No way this wasn't making the local papers.

"Cas!" Dean hissed, shaking the angel's arm.

"They will not see either of us, Dean. However, as it disturbs you so."

Dean took an involuntary step back as Castiel reached two fingers toward his forehead. Next thing he knew, they were standing in a small, dimly lit park beside a swing set, its seats swaying gently in the night breeze. "I hate it when you do that!"

The angel looked skyward – it couldn't be an eyeroll, he was an angel for God's sake – and then closed his eyes again. "My apologies."

"And now you're apologizing for saving my ass?!" Dean demanded incredulously. "Don't! It needed saving!" Boy howdy had it needed saving. That encounter with Alastair had unsettled Dean on more levels than he could count. That offer… son of a bitch, that offer still made his head spin. "Is Alastair dead?" he asked, dreading the answer either way.

"No."

"What just happened here?"

"What just happened?" Castiel opened his eyes and smiled. It was a little smile, but to Dean's amazement it _was_ a smile. "You and Sam just saved a seal. We captured Alastair. Dean, this was a victory."

"One of the reapers still died," Dean snapped. "You should have been there then. We could have used the help."

"What makes you think I wasn't here?"

Dean took a step back, running his hands over his face. "You were here the whole time?" He said it more to himself than to the angel, but Castiel responded anyway.

"Enough of it."

"Well, thanks for your help with the rock salt," Dean snapped. He knew he was being unfair, not to mention downright menopausally bitchy, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Taking a deep breath, he fought to regain control over himself, over his roiling emotions. "Why didn't you do something?"

"That script on the funeral home, we couldn't penetrate it."

"That was angel proofing," Dean replied thoughtfully. So, if Alastair had gotten him inside the funeral home, Cas wouldn't have been able to get him out.

"Why do you think I recruited you and Sam in the first place?" Castiel closed the space that Dean had placed between them, standing very close to him. He peered directly into the hunter's eyes, and Dean felt his heart pounding under the intensity of that gaze.

"You recruited us?"  
"That wasn't your friend Bobby who called, Dean. It wasn't Bobby who told Sam about the seal."

"That was you?" Castiel nodded. Dean felt his temper fighting to escape control, his whole being longing for the release that a good explosion could provide. "If you wanted our help, why the hell didn't you just ask?"

Castiel leaned ever closer, his voice grown more gravelly than usual when he replied, "Because whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite."

Dean dropped his eyes first. Okay, so, maybe there was a little truth in that. Maybe more than just a little. "So what now? People in this town, they just gonna start dying again?"

"Yes."

"These are good people. Don't you think you could make a few exceptions?" Dean asked desperately. All those people, the cancer guy who'd taken his wife out for their anniversary, the man he and Sam had interviewed, they were all going to die now?

"To everything there is a season, Dean."

"You made an exception for me," Dean whispered.

"You're different."

Dean swallowed, feeling his eyes burn. Why did everyone keep saying that? Castiel said he was different. Alastair said he was different. Even Sam had insisted that Dean wasn't Joe the Plumber. Sam… Oh crap, Sam!

"Cas, where's Sam? Did one of the demons get him?"

"He has returned to his body. He is… unhurt."

The angel's hesitation was not reassuring. "No, I'm telling you something's wrong. It's been too long. I should have heard from him or Pamela by now." Dean walked across the park to the illuminated street sign on the corner. South 2nd Street. There hotel was on North 6th St. The city was laid out on a grid. It might take a while, but Dean knew he could find his way back easy enough. "Look, you'll be okay here by yourself, right? I'm going to head back to the hotel so Pam can – " He jumped involuntarily when Castiel's hand closed on his arm. He didn't squeak though. He absolutely did _not_ squeak.

"No. You are not to walk this city alone. The danger is still too great." Castiel's tone was firm, his words commanding and Dean bristled instinctively. Besides, being embarrassed pissed him off.

"Look, dude. I have to get back. Sam will freak and if Pamela decides that I'm – "

"Pamela is dead, Dean."

"What? How do you know that? How can you possibly know that?"

"It is enough that I know," the angel said emotionlessly. "She is dead. She will be unable to return you to your body."

Dean reeled. Pamela was dead? Psychic Pam? "How?"

"A demon."

"Sam!" Dean's heart thumped in his chest. Corporeal or not, he felt like he was having a heart attack. "You said – "

"Sam is uninjured. He successfully fought off the demon." There was an odd look on Castiel's face, a miniscule tightening of the muscles in his jaw, and Dean knew what that meant. Sam had fought off the demon alright. He'd exorcised it with his mind. Something that he'd sworn to Dean he would never do again. "I have to get back," Dean said tightly, his throat aching, his jaw clenching.

"Yes. My injuries have healed and it is time that I returned you to your body."

"You can do that?" Dean asked, surprised by the angel's matter-of-fact pronouncement.

"Of course. I've done it before." Castiel reached two finger's toward Dean's forehead, but Dean yanked backwards, trying to pull his arm out of the angel's grip.

"Whoa! Wait a minute!" Dean balked. "Uh uh!"

"Dean, it has been too long already. I must return you to your body for your own safety." From the clipped nature of the words, Dean knew he was trying the angel's patience.

"Dude, that last time you did that it flattened ten acres of trees! No way!"

"That time required a significantly greater expenditure of energy. I pulled you from Hell, reanimated your corpse and then re-ensouled your body. This time will not be nearly so difficult."

"But – " Dean began dubiously.

"Enough of this." Castiel's fingers brushed Dean's forehead and the hunter knew no more.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – Bodies to Move

"Animum vult decepi, ergo decepiatur. Vis, vis, vis." Sam's fingers had begun to tingle where they rested against Dean's forehead, but he had a horrible feeling that had more to do with his pressing too hard than any kind of psychic connection he might be developing with his insensate brother. He pulled his hand away, shook it until the wrist snapped and popped, then repositioned his fingers to try again. "Animum vult decepi, ergo – "

_Bzzzttt. Bzzzttt. _

Sam fumbled for his cellphone. A sneaking suspicion that ring tones and astral projection didn't go well together had caused him to set his Arc Slider on vibrate when he and Dean had begun preparing for their out-of-body experience. Digging it out of his jeans pocket, Sam checked the caller ID. A tremendous sense of relief suffused him when he saw who was calling. He slid the phone open and jammed it against his ear. "Ruby! Where are you? It's been hours."

"Sam, it's been less than ninety minutes. You need to calm down." Ruby's voice came over the line, clear, calm and just the tiniest bit exasperated. Sam was startled by an overwhelming urge to smack her.

"What's taking so long?" he demanded.

"I ran into a little trouble leaving Pasadena." She sighed. "Look, Sam, it's not like I have a magic transporter. You know I can't just teleport without someone actually summoning me."

"I could summon you," Sam assured her hastily. Jumping up from the bed, he hurried over to his bag. Propping the phone awkwardly between his shoulder and his ear, Sam started rummaging. "I have everything I need. I could summon you now."

"Slow down, Sam," Ruby urged. "Are you sure it's that – "

Sam jerked upright and dropped the phone as a groan sounded behind him. Spinning around, he saw Dean draw in a long, gasping breath. Coughs immediately wracked his frame, and Dean turned onto his side, knees drawn up to his chest, curling in on himself. His body spasmed and jolted with every cough. He's breathing! He's awake and he's breathing!

"Sam? Sam!" The voice was tinny and far away. With a start, Sam realized that Ruby was still on the line. Snatching up the phone, he said, "I'll call you back," and then disconnected without further explanation.

"Dean?" Sam said, practically levitating the few feet to his brother's side. "Dean, are you okay? What happened? Why'd it take you so long to get back? Where have you been for the last – " Sam stopped in mid-stream as Dean waved a frantic hand at him. "What, Dean?"

Face half buried in the crappy hotel comforter, Dean rasped out a hoarse, but emphatic, "Shut up, Sam."

Grinding his teeth in annoyance, Sam shut up while Dean continued to cough and twitch on the bed. They didn't have time for this. They needed to get out of here. They needed to cover their tracks. They needed – Sam needed answers, damn it. Finally, Dean's breathing evened out and he rolled onto his back, and looked up at Sam with red eyes.

"Crap," he croaked. Sam could not have agreed more. "Pamela?"

Sam swallowed, his gaze gliding across the narrow space between the beds to rest on the covered form lying on the other bed.

"She's dead," Dean said. It wasn't a question, but Sam nodded anyway. "Demon?" This time it was a question, and Sam looked back at his brother with wide eyes.

"How did you know that?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as Dean turned his head away and stared at the opposite wall for a moment. Then Dean shrugged, and Sam knew that something had happened when they were apart, something that Dean had no intention of sharing with him. Anger burned low in Sam's stomach. Dean always had to be so damn secretive, always had to suffer in silence like some kind of martyr. He was sick of it.

"Get up," he snapped as he rose to his feet. "We need to get our stuff and get out of here before someone works up enough courage to come find out what all the commotion was about."

Dean nodded without saying anything and Sam walked across the room and snatched up their duffel bags. On reflection, he grabbed Pamela's purse and tucked it inside his bag as well. Then, without another word to Dean, Sam lugged the load down to the car and dumped it in the trunk. He was halfway back upstairs when it occurred to him that they were going to need the trunk for something else. With a curse at his own idiocy, Sam hightailed it back to the Impala and shifted the duffels to the backseat. When he got back upstairs, he found that the motel room door hadn't swung shut behind him and Dean hadn't bothered to close it. It was the kind of rookie mistake that Dean would never have made a year ago, the kind of mistake that he never would have made before… before Hell.

Sam scanned the hallway for observers as he backed into their room through the open door. Not a soul stirring, thank goodness. Kicking the door shut behind him, Sam shot the deadbolt home and then turned to survey the room. The bathroom door was closed, so, presumably, Dean was taking care of business. The candles and the rest of Pamela's disposable ritual crap were still scattered about, but that could be left behind. Somehow, Sam didn't see himself being real comfortable using Pamela's candles for some future rite or blackout anyway. Grief over her death warred with fear and confusion over her final words to him. What right did she have to claim that he didn't have good intentions? She barely knew him. _Had_ barely known him, he corrected himself. And now she was gone like so many others. Too many others. Anger drained away as Sam's eyes drifted once more to the blanket-covered form on his bed. She'd called him Grumpy. Funny how much he'd liked that. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Sam walked over and gently uncovered the body. It had been almost two hours now since she'd passed, but with her plastic eyes and her sunglasses all the most immediate signs of decay were invisible. There was a faint but distinctive odor, one Sam seldom encountered since the bodies that he and Dean dealt with were usually several years dead. The last indignity, his father had once called it. Bad enough for a man to die, but to be left to lie in his own mess afterwards was unforgivable. Dad had been right about some things. They wouldn't leave her.

Careful to get as little blood on himself as possible, Sam wrapped Pamela's body in the bedspread on which she had died. Then, stripping more blankets off Dean's bed, he cocooned the body in an additional two layers. It would help make the bundle less identifiable and keep down the slowly ripening smell. They could roll the whole thing into a trap later, at least until they decided what to do with it – with her. Still, no matter what they ultimately did with the body, they absolutely couldn't afford to be noticed hauling a corpse around. It would be just a little difficult to explain.

Dean had yet to emerge from the bathroom when Sam was finished, so he walked over and rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Dean? Dean, come on. We need to get Pamela to the car and get out of here." There was no answer. "Dean?" Sam turned the knob and the door opened right up, but then they'd always had a policy about leaving bathroom doors unlocked. Neither of them was young enough to find embarrassment a terminal issue, and they didn't need to be breaking down doors every time one of them collapsed or passed out during the aftermath of a hunt. Like now for instance. His older brother had not blacked out this time, but he didn't look very damn good, either. Dean was sitting on the closed toilet-seat lid with his head clutched in his hands. His whole body was shaking and a sweat had broken out on his pale skin. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed, kneeling down beside him. "Dude, what's wrong?"

Dean started to shake his head but stopped with a groan. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and Sam had to strain to hear him when he muttered one three-syllable word. "Concussion."

"Crap," Sam breathed. Dean had been thrown headfirst into a tombstone by Alastair just the night before, but it shouldn't still be bothering him this much. It hadn't caused more than headache the previous day so far as Sam knew. At the moment, though, Dean was looking alarmingly gray and didn't seem to be real keen on opening his eyes. "Crap," Sam repeated under his breath. It wasn't like Dean could have been injured again. They'd been like ghosts, completely non-corporeal. How could you hurt someone who wasn't even wearing their body? Pamela had complained that the plan was heavy-duty insane, but Sam had gotten the impression that it had more to do with the fact that they wouldn't be able to accomplish much as astral projections than with any real concern for their safety. In any case, that's what he'd tried to convince himself. But there was no doubting that Dean looked worse now than he had that morning when he'd accused Sam of lying to him about the encounter with Alastair that Sam had had after Dean had been knocked out in the graveyard. Dean's distrust stung. Ironically, the fact that Sam _was_ lying to him didn't seem to make the lack of trust hurt any less, especially when Dean had complained that he was being treated like an idiot. Sam didn't think his big brother was an idiot. He'd never though Dean was an idiot. At least, not really.

Now, here he was, playing big brother to his ill and wounded sibling. Dean was so much better at this. "Dean, come on. We need to get you to the car." Sam placed his hands under his brother's armpits and lifted. Dean moaned and swatted half-heartedly at him, but Sam was relentless. "I know you're hurting. I swear I'll do something about that as soon as I can, but in the meantime we have to get out of here."

"Give me a minute," Dean mumbled.

Pursing his lips, Sam moved to Dean's side and slipped an arm around his waist. "Sorry, Dude. No more minutes to give you. We have to go. Now." With Dean muttering and griping the whole way, Sam herded his brother though the motel room, out the door, down the hall, down the exterior stairs to the parking lot and into the car. Dean sank into the Impala's front passenger seat with a moan. His eyes were still clamped shut. Guilt nagging at him for every negative thought that he'd ever entertained about his brother, Sam popped open the glove compartment and pulled out Dean's sunglasses. Placing them over Dean's eyes, he said, "Wait here. I'll be right back." Then he closed the passenger door and took off for their motel room at a dead run.

One more body to move.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 -- Dull Wet Thud Smoosh!

One more body to move.

Getting Pamela's body downstairs proved harder than Sam had expected, but then he'd counted on having Dean to help him lug the corpse to the Impala. For a woman who'd been in such good shape, Pamela was awfully heavy and she was, quite literally, a dead weight. Worse, carrying Pamela reminded Sam of an experience that he would far rather never relive for the rest of his days. Dean's body had been larger than Pamela's, his remains more muscled and much, much messier. And Dean was his brother, the brother he'd fought so desperately to save and utterly, totally failed. Carrying that body had been hefavier in every way, even with Bobby to help him.

What Sam wouldn't give for Bobby's help now. He'd counted on having Dean on hand to help keep a look out for observers as well as to help heft the body. It might be the middle of the night, but there were always people who couldn't or wouldn't sleep. One overly curious insomniac and they were toast. So, trying to find a good balance between suspicious stealth and equally suspicious haste, Sam shouldered his awkward load and made his way carefully down the hallway. He had a bad moment when he got to the end of the hall and opened the door to the stairs. There were voices coming from the parking lot below, a man and a woman. The man was speaking in one of those _I think I'm whispering, but I'm drunk, so I'm really not whispering _voices, and the woman was giggling. It sounded kind of fake. It also sounded like they'd both been drinking just enough for their faculties to be at less than one hundred percent. Sam froze, trying to decide whether to brazen it out and just march down the stairs with his bundle or whether to try and make it back to their room. Their room key was buried deep in his inner coat pocket, and he'd have to set Pamela down to unearth it. That decided him. Taking a deep breath, Sam steeled his nerves and tried not to look like the world's most inept contract killer. He felt an overwhelming urge to whistle and ruthlessly suppressed it.

Sam met up with the couple just as he reached the landing where the stairs did a sharp one-eighty. The woman, a bottle-redhead who reeked of gin and Chanel No. 5, ran smack into him, and for one eternal second Sam was certain that Pamela's body was going to go sailing over the railing and land with a dull, wet thud-smoosh on the god-awful green minivan parked in the space below. The bundle teetered in mid-air until the man, short, balding and also reeking of gin and Old Spice, reached out and helped Sam pull it back onto the landing. "Sorry about that!" he exclaimed. The woman immediately shushed him, then smiled slyly at Sam, grabbed her companion by his tie and hurried further on up the stairs. Sam gaped after them. Holy crap. Holy _crap_! People were crazy… and blind. Tucking one of Pamela's feet back into the cocoon of blankets, Sam maneuvered the whole bundle back onto his shoulder and practically raced down the remainder of the stairs. Luckily or not, depending on how many more people came back after a late night out, the Impala was parked just across from the foot of the stairs. With a mumbled, "sorry," Sam dropped Pamela's body onto the ground in front of the trunk. Then he skidded around the side of the car and peered in through the passenger window at Dean. His brother was either asleep or doing a damn good imitation of it. He was breathing, though, and he wasn't getting into trouble. At the moment, that was all Sam could ask for.

With the gin-happy couple disappeared upstairs and Dean conked out in the Impala, the parking lot was quiet and still. Sam did not find this as reassuring as he might otherwise have found it. When he and Dean had fled the funeral home with Tessa, they'd left behind Alastair and at least two other demons. And that wasn't including the demon who had killed Pamela and whose meat-suit now lay on the floor of their hotel room awaiting discovery. Four demons all told, and that was at a minimum. There could easily be more, and they could be coming for them even now. But all that moved through the parking lot was a small whirlwind of litter and leaves blown about by a soft night breeze. Nothing else stirred. Nothing he could see. The neon sign on the rear of the hotel and the parking lot lights illuminated next to nothing, hid more than they revealed, and every shadow was a potential threat. Damn it. They'd stopped the breaking of a seal. Alastair was bound to be pissed. Was that what had happened to Dean? Had Alastair retaliated in some fashion? Had Tessa prevented Dean's return in some fashion? Judging by that kiss, she definitely thought of him as the one that got away. She'd said as much, now that Sam thought about it. Or had something less tangible delayed Dean's return? Had his time in Hell somehow affected his soul's connection to his body? Had four months as a rotting corpse made a difference? It was true that Sam had been dead once too, but Sam had been dead for a much shorter time period, and whatever afterlife he had experienced, he didn't remember it.

Sam scrambled at the trunk lock, careful even in his current haste not to let the key slip. Dean would eviscerate him if he scratched up the paint job. Angels might come and demons might go, but some things remained constant and immutable. Don't screw with the Impala was one of them. The trunk lid rose up and Sam knelt down, scooping Pamela's back into his arms. Rising, he contemplated exactly how he was supposed to make six feet of woman fit into about four feet of trunk without resorting to the use of a hacksaw. The bulk of the blankets certainly didn't help, making it difficult to bend the body into a more manageable shape, but Sam wasn't about to stick her in the trunk sans covering of any kind. He just wasn't. After several minutes of shoving and shifting things about, and an abject cringe when an ominous cracking sound echoed through the confined space, Sam finally had her situated. He felt sick. Less than two hours ago, Pamela had been a breathing, walking, talking person. Now she was riding in the trunk. Sam slammed the lid shut and hurried to the driver's side door. Just as his fingers closed on the door handle, his cellphone began to vibrate again. He checked the caller I.D. reflexively. It was Ruby again.

"What?"

"Sam! What the Hell was that? You hung up on me." She sounded pissed and rightfully so, but Sam wasn't in the mood to be conciliatory, especially with a demon, not even if that demon was his best chance of killing Lilith. "Well?"

"I had to go. Dean woke up."

"What? Are you so afraid of what big brother will say if he finds out that you're still working with me?" she demanded hotly.

Stung, Sam protested, "No. That's not it." Though, to be honest, he wasn't sure he entirely sure he believed his own denials. Suddenly, inspiration struck. "Listen, I still need you to do something for me."

Ruby sighed in exasperation, sounding more human than ever. "Gee, Sam, you sure know how to make a girl feel wanted."

"Ruby – "

"No, it's okay," she said, sounding more apologetic than she strictly needed to be. "Just tell me what you need. You know I'm here for you."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 -- On the Road Again

An abrupt, non-rhythmic rocking jolted Dean from his slumbers. The Impala was shaking and shimmying beneath him, and a pair of sunglasses were hanging halfway off his nose. He pulled them off and dropped them on the seat beside him as the car shook again. As alarmed and curious as a half-awake man could be, Dean shifted around in his seat until he was facing forward. No monster on the hood of the car. Check. Turning his head slowly, his skull still resting on the back of the seat, he looked out each side window. No monsters on either side of the car. Check and check. Dean adjusted the rearview mirror until he could see out the Impala's back window, but to his dismay all he could see was the trunk lid. Yahtzee. The car shook again, this time dipping deeply on the driver's side before righting itself on its chassis What was Sasquatch doing back there? Loading cement blocks? Dean debated between going back to sleep and going back there to chew his brother out for mistreating his baby. He was on the verge of getting out of the car, or least rolling the window down to holler at Sam, when the trunk slammed shut and Sam appeared at the driver-side door. He didn't open it though. Instead he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his fancy-schmancy cellphone. A sliding cellphone… what was that all about? The ones that flipped open like Star Trek communicators were so much cooler anyway.

Dean wondered who he was talking to, but then the memory of the case they'd been working surfaced along with the memory of Castiel telling him that Pamela was dead. Another death on his head. Dean's heart ached, but then so did everything else, and the pain of the loss got lost in the general fog of misery. At least it explained who Sam was talking to. His brother must have called Bobby to let him know that Pamela was dead. She had been Bobby's friend after all. It was only because of Bobby that she'd met Sam and Dean in the first place. Lucky her.

Poor psychic Pam. She'd called him Chachi. Strange to think of her as a Happy Days fan. She seemed way too grunge metal for that, but then you never really knew people.

Dean's eyes started to drift shut as Sam leaned against the side of the car. He knew he should be worrying about Pamela, about Alastair, about everything Alastair had said, but he was in the Impala, Sam was only a couple of feet away and he felt safe for the moment. Emotionally and physically exhausted, but safe. He floated, his body heavy but his mind light and untethered. When Sam opened the door and sat behind the wheel, Dean cracked his eyes open again, uncertain how much time had passed since he'd first noticed Sammy on the cell phone. Without a word, Sam put the key in the ignition and fired the Impala up. He turned on the lights, backed out of their parking space and pulled onto 6th St. at a sedate 35 mph. Nothing screamed, "I'm up to no good! Please pull me over!" to the local LEOs like speeding out of town with the headlights dark and the rubber burning. Sam's hands were clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles pale white in the glow of passing headlights, few and far between though they were.

"Where's Pamela?' Dean asked. Sam jumped and the car swerved into the oncoming lane for two very exciting seconds. "Watch it, Sasquatch. You crash my car and I'll have to sell your emo music collection to buy a new one."

"Dean!" Sam remonstrated, shooting Dean a look of death out of the corner of his eyes. "Don't do that!"

"Where's Pamela?" Dean repeated.

Sam said nothing for several second, eyes staying strictly on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel seemed to tighten. "In the trunk."

Dean let his chin fall to his chest. "Man… "

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

Dean swallowed, his throat gone suddenly dry. "This blows."

"Tell me about it."

"You got all our stuff out of there?"

Sam nodded. "I took care of it, Dean."  
"What about the other guy? The demon?"

"I've got it covered."

Dean turned in his seat until he was facing Sam and slumped down against the seat back, curling up as much as he could for warmth. He still felt shivery, like his insides were made of ice, and his head was pounding like he'd just eaten five pounds of ice cream without stopping for breath. Sam reached out and cranked up the heat. By the change in the air flow, Dean could tell that his brother had adjusted all the vents so they were blowing on him. He snuggled in further and that's when his face hit it. Oh, ick. Apparently he'd left a trail of drool on the bench seat when he'd fallen asleep before. Grumping, Dean swiped at the spot with the cuff of his sleeve. If Sam saw, he didn't comment. The highway just unrolled in front of them in a tense silence. After several minutes of this, Dean could feel sleep pulling at him again but he fought to stay awake. Talking. Talking would help.

"So what did you do with – "

"I said I've got it covered," Sam snapped.

Okay, so scratch talking. Dean scowled, determined to give Sam a piece of his mind for being so damned high-handed, but sleep rose up and pulled him down before he could think of anything sufficiently insulting to say.

When next he woke, the car had stopped moving. They were parked on the side of a deserted country lane. Thickly canopied trees overhung the road, deepening the darkness and cutting off all sight of the moon and stars. Even in the pitch blackness, Dean could just see the outline of something moving in front of his face and he swatted at it reflexively. He heard a crackling sound and drops of water splashed onto his hands and the thighs of his jeans.

"Darn it, Dean." Sam huffed.

Sitting up straight, Dean leaned forward and flicked on the overhead light. For a moment he had a clear, up-close view of a disgruntled Sam holding out an open water bottle and a bottle of ibuprofen. Then Sam hit the light switch with his elbow and they were back in darkness. Dean flicked it back on. Sam flicked it back off.

"What the hell, Sam?"

"We don't need the light, Dean, and we don't want to be spotted."

"By who?" Dean demanded. "A barn owl? Some bats maybe?"

Dean started when Sam's hand closed around his wrist. There was a small rattling sound and Dean felt a small stack of pills land in his palm. "What's this for?"

"Just take them," Sam ordered.

Dean scowled. When had his brother gotten so bossy? His head was still pounding, though, so Dean tossed back the pills, dry swallowed and swatted at Sam again when his brother tried to push the water into his hand. "Don't need it."

"You have a possible concussion, you were missing in the astral plane for over an hour and you've been snoring like a Clydesdale with sleep apnea. You need to stay hydrated."

"Hydrated? Pulling out the big words now, are we Sammy? Besides, it's not a concussion. Feels more like a migraine."

"All the more reason to drink some water."

"Thanks but no thanks," Dean demurred. Still, a drink did sound good right about now, especially one that could dull some ragged edges – like the edge that kept reminding him that there was a dead woman in their trunk, or the one that kept rehashing Alastair's monumentally tempting offer. Yeah, those edges. Dean had stopped carrying a whiskey flask after the whole wishing-well debacle, but he was pretty sure there was still one in the glove compartment. He'd grown up in the seats of the Impala and didn't need even a smidgeon of light to navigate the space. Popping open the glove compartment, he pulled out his backup Jack, but before he could unscrew the cap, Sam snatched it out of his hands.

"No way, Dean. No alcohol."

"Sam, so help me – " Dean spun around in his seat, more than prepared to take a swing at his self-righteous, and more than a little hypocritical, brother. He wasn't prepared for the renewed dizziness that struck like poltergeist on crack. "Son of a bitch," he groaned. Sam muttered something unintelligible, closed Dean's hand around the water bottle and all but forced him to take a drink. Once he started, he found that he couldn't stop, and before he knew it the water was gone, an empty bottle cracking in his hand. The world spinning around you in daylight was bad enough. Pitch black and spinning just plain sucked.

Sam reached into the backseat, pulled their emergency blanket off the floor boards and tossed it at him. "Go back to sleep, Dean. I got this."

Feeling like a wuss of Grand Canyon proportions, Dean curled up in the blanket and did just that.


	10. Chapter 10

A Light Repast

It seemed like Dean had just fallen asleep when Sam was waking him up again and forcing more water on him Then it happened again. And again. And again! Each time he asked Dean how he was feeling. Twice he'd shone a flashlight right at Dean's face, hitting him in the eyes and making him squint. The next time he tried that, Dean threatened to get out and walk if Sam didn't knock it off. Then, realizing the absurdity of what he'd just said, Dean called a do-over and threatened to make _Sam_ get out and walk if he didn't knock it off. Eventually, it dawned on Dean that Sam was waking him up every hour, on the hour. The frequent wake up calls, the water, the lights in the eyes, the inane conversation… Sam was checking him for head trauma. Son of a bitch, that kid worried too much. Dean let it go. He was letting so many things go lately, what was one more?

They traveled all night and well into the next day, and Dean was happy, for once, to let Sam do all the driving. He didn't know whether it was the encounter with Alastair or just the extended astral projection, but he was as drained as he'd ever felt in his life. Well, okay, maybe he'd felt worse than this after that whole electrocution thing. And he'd felt pretty lousy after the episode with the djinn. And he didn't even want to think about the way he'd felt when Sammy was… when Sammy was…

And what was with Sam lately anyway? The kid was in full-on Vulcan control mode, emotionless, hard, dealing with obstacles ruthlessly and efficiently, and completely ignoring Dean except to make sure that he was still breathing. No, worse, he was acting like a freaking Cylon – or maybe that should be fracking, even if it was a reference that Sam would undoubtedly not get. And why any red-blooded guy _wouldn't_ want to watch a female version of Starbuck kick ass was beyond Dean. Some dudes were just clueless. Cylon, Vulcan, Vorlon. Whatever you called it, clearly, Sam had been on his own too long while Dean was dead. Of course, that was only if you could consider trailing around after that skanky little whore being on your own. Regardless, the net effect was that Sam displayed a pain-in-the-ass combination of mounting paranoia for Dean's safety and annoyance that he could no longer do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted without regard to Dean and his inconvenient opinions. His brother had seemed so happy to see him, to be reunited when they first saw each other again in Pontiac, but sometimes Dean wondered if the kid wouldn't be happier alone again. Sam was the one who'd struck out on his own before. He'd seemed happy enough the few times that Dean had snuck off to Stanford to spy – correction: to check up on him. Now that he didn't have to worry about Dean rotting in The Pit, maybe Sam would prefer it if they went their separate ways. Didn't matter, though. There was no way that Dean was leaving him alone because Sam wouldn't actually _be _alone. He'd be with her. Sam had claimed that he was done with his powers, but clearly he wasn't. He'd killed that demon with his mind. Dean was sure of it. For one thing, even sick as a dog he'd been able to tell that there wasn't a stab wound in the guy. What blood had been all over the poor meat-suit was probably from Pamela. Thrilling. And protestations aside, Sam's claims that he was only using Ruby, that he didn't fully trust her, were so much baloney. He still called her. Still jumped when she said boo. In fact, he listened to and obeyed that conniving bitch more readily and willingly than he'd ever listened to their father. What the fuck was that about? She'd lied when she said she could save Dean from going to Hell. She'd withheld the rather vital information that Lilith was the one who held Dean's contract, and this new brunette version of her was even more emo than Sam as far as Dean could tell. Talk about a match made in Hell. No way was Dean leaving, not while he could still put a spoke in her demonic wheels. Gah.

The miles rolled on. Worland to Buffalo. Buffalo to Gillette. By Gillette, Dean was all sleeped out and getting bored. Sam had clearly taken Dean's earlier threat seriously and had given up on the hourly checks. His shoulders and back still looked tense enough to use as an ironing board, however, so conversation was definitely out, and Dean didn't feel quite up to the level of puckish good humor it would take to lure Sam out of his morose seething. Music it was. Dean turned on the stereo, popped in a rather weathered copy of AC/DC and cranked up the volume until he saw Sam wince slightly, then he dialed it back one notch. No need to push Gigantor's buttons too hard, not when they were carrying a dead friend's body in their trunk. By the time they hit Moorcroft, Dean had his feet up on the dashboard and was drumming lightly on his knees. By the time they hit Sundance, Dean was singing along. Somehow, belting out Led Zeppelin didn't seem disrespectful to Pamela's memory She had been a basically cool chick, and she was long-gone by now anyway. No way was that one sticking around as a restless spirit. She had far too much sense and a low tolerance level for melodrama and bullshit, rather surprising in a psychic. Sam had glowered at Dean at first, but gradually the tension had eased out of his shoulders and he'd lounged back in the driver's seat. The next big town on their route was Spearfish, a place Dean preferred to avoid on the general principle that anyplace with a name like Spearfish had to be wall-to-wall rednecks, but there was a whole lot of nothing between Spearfish and Whitewood and the Impala was running low on fuel. So was Dean. And to judge by the grumbling and growling coming from the other side of the car, so was Sammy boy.

"Take the next exit, Sasquatch," Dean directed when he saw the Business 90 exit coming up.

"We should just keep going. We're making good – "

"Dude, dead body in the trunk or not, we need to eat and my baby needs gas. So take Biz 90 and we can find someplace to stop for a burger."

Sam shot him an incredulous look out of the corner of eye. "A burger? Seriously?"

"I'm hungry, Sam. Do you really want to be stuck in a car with a dead body _and_ a hungry brother for the next 200 miles?"

Sam smiled wryly. "I see your point."

The got off the real interstate and onto the stoplight-riddled business version thereof. His brother started to pull off the road automatically when they came to the first likely looking diner, but Dean told him to keep driving. Sam gave him a puzzled look. "Have you got someplace specific in mind? I didn't think you'd ever been through here before unless it was while I was at Stanford."

Dean just grinned. "Nope, never been here and yup, I have someplace specific in mind. I know it's off this road." They kept going and five blocks later, Dean saw it. The Biggerson's Sizzlin' Grill & Bar was tucked into a shopping center that included a Hy-Vee grocery store, a deserted building that looked like it might once have been a video store, two nail salons and a half-dozen more small businesses that were the same no matter what state you were in. From the road he could see a giant sign advertising the Hy-Vee's "Sock Hop To Benefit The Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, 3rd Annual." Dean nodded absently in approval. People might usually be crazy, but sometimes they could be cool too. Hy-Vee got the Dean Winchester Stamp of Approval. Whap!

"Pull in here," Dean said, grinning ear to ear when he turned and saw the appalled look on his brother's face.

"What?! Oh, come on, Dean! Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," Dean replied in mock appallment of his own. "I love Biggerson's. You know that."

"How did you even know there was one in this town?" Sam demanded as he pulled the Impala into the parking lot, a resigned look on his face.

"Duh, Sammy. I memorized the list of Biggerson's locations after we won that free food for a year thing. Besides, their deep-friend onions are God's food."

"Yeah, but I'm the one stuck in the car with your onion breath." Sam rolled his eyes as he put the car into park. "It's not like we even have free food anymore," he muttered.

"What can I say, bro? Guess I'm just a big sentimentalist at heart." Judging by the twitching of his lips, Sasquatch was fighting a battle with amusement and losing, big time.

"Ya know," he said thoughtfully, and with more than a tiny hint of mischief. "The food of the gods would actually be called ambrosia or manna. You wouldn't actually call it God's food."

"Well, college boy, as it happens I didn't mean the food of the gods. I meant _God's_ food. As in, it tastes like God himself came down here and cooked it. Besides, only you and the world's other top ten geeks would know what ambrosia or that manna stuff is. If I didn't know so much weird monster-related crap myself, I would officially proclaim you the King of All Bizarre Knowledge. As it is, you'll have to settle for Prince of Goofiness."

"Which makes you the court jester."

"Oh! Does that mean that I get to be Danny Kaye?" Dean asked enthusiastically, his brain automatically starting in on the infamous dialogue. It took his tongue a few seconds to catch up. "The vessel with the petal – no, the vessel with the pestle has the pellet with the poison. The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true." He waggled his eyebrows.

"I have nooo idea what you're talking about," Sam said as they walked up to the Bisggerson's entrance. He was giving Dean a look that bespoke future checks for head trauma.

Dean snickered. "Somehow your ignorance of a truly great American classic does not surprise me, Sam."

"Can I help you?" The hostess was a tiny, dark-haired Asian girl with no resemblance whatsoever to Bella. This seemed to reassure Sam somewhat and he followed in her wake without demur. Then he slid into their booth with an exhausted sigh. Dean was suddenly reminded of the fact that Sam had been awake for more than a day and in that time he'd gone astral, fought off a demon, watched a friend die, hauled his brother around like a drunken sack of potatoes and then driven for hours on end. The kid needed sleep as much as he needed food, and as soon as they got back in the car, Dean was going to see that he got it. They'd gotten a spot by the window, and Dean had a nice clear view of the Impala, though not of its hidden contents. Still, he knew they were there and thinking of Pamela all scrunched up in the trunk made him feel sick at his stomach for a moment. His naturally resilient constitution reasserted itself quickly enough, however, and Dean picked up the menu and started browsing for a main course to go with his Onion Blossom. He settled on the San Antonia double bacon cheeseburger with avocado, a side of spicy oven fries and a Coke. Sam, being Sam, ordered a chef's salad with French dressing and a coffee. Dean changed the coffee to a decaf before the waitress could walk away. Sam glared at him, but nodded a yes to their waitress when she looked at him questioningly.

The meal passed in silence, Dean too focused on his food and Sam too focused on his exhaustion for either of them to have much to say. Despite his obvious tiredness, Sam ate much more quickly than usual, practically bolting his salad and swallowing the coffee down in two gulps. Then, while Dean was still eating his way through the remains of the onion and fries, Sam shoved his plate away and fixed a solemn gaze upon him. "Dean, we need to talk."

"Sam, come on. I'm trying to eat here."

"What happened while you were gone?"

Dean blinked, stopping with an onion wedge halfway to his mouth. "You mean while I was _gone_ gone?"

"No, no," Sam hastily assured him, shaking his head for emphasis. "Not while you were… down under. You already told me about that and I know it's not… I mean what happened while you were astral? Why'd it take so long for you to come back?"

Dean put the onion in his mouth and looked out the window while he chewed with extra care, taking time to consider his answer. Once he'd swallowed, he shrugged and said, "Nothing."

"Come on man, I know that's not true. You were gone for ages, the spell wasn't working to bring you back, and then suddenly it does work and you show up sick as a dog. Nothing that happened made me feel sick, so why – "

"I am _not_ weak, Sam. Don't even go there!"

Sam flinched and Dean cast a surreptitious look around the dining room, hoping that none of the other patrons had noticed his slightly raised tones.

"I'm not, truly. I just really need to know what happened, Dean. Please."

Sam's voice was filled with entreaty and, against his better judgment, Dean glanced back at his brother's face. Crap. The puppy dog eyes. Why was it always the puppy dog eyes? With a weary sigh, Dean started hastily revising events in his head. Well, more summarizing really. It wasn't like he was going to lie to Sam. He just wasn't in the mood for too much caring and sharing. "Tessa took me to see that kid. Ya know, Cole? Well, I helped convince him to move on. Then she bailed."

"And it took like two hours?" Sam said dubiously.

"No, but I had to walk back to the motel and I, uh, I ran into Alastair on the way."

"Holy crap. Are you okay? I mean, did he do anything to you? How did you get away?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yes. No. And Cas."

"Castiel was there?" Sam exclaimed sotto voce.

"Yeah, Dude. How do you think I got back into my body?" Dean snorted and smiled as he wiped up the remains of his ketchup with the remains of his fries. "Man, Sam, you should have seen it. Cas kicked some serious tail for a while there. Then this lightning bolt just zapped Alastair right in his demonic little ass and he went poof. It was like watching Dorothy melt the Wicked Witch of the West."

"Castiel can throw lightning bolts?" Sam asked, his eyebrows climbing as a dumbfounded look settled on his gigantic features.

"Nah, somebody else did it. That would be cool, though."

"But who – "

"Dunno. Somebody on our side, obviously. That's all I know." Dean stuffed the rest of his fries in his mouth and chewed.

"Huh."

Dean grinned and muttered, "That's what I said," around his mouthful of potato.

Sam stared thoughtfully out the window for several seconds, then he turned back to Dean and demanded to know whether anything else had had happened.

"Nope. Saw Tessa. Saw Alastair. Saw Cas. That's it."

"So why do you suppose you were so sick?"

Dean decided he'd have to throw the kid a bone. "Well, he did grab ahold of me at one point."

"He could touch you?"

"Apparently. Maybe that did something. I don't really know."

Finished, Dean shoved his own plate away and waved a hand in the direction of their waitress, ready to get the check and get out on the road. Before she saw him, however, Sam snatched up the dessert menu from the end of the table and shoved it at him. "Order something for dessert. And something for me, to go." He stood, checked to make sure he had his wallet and then started to walk out.

"Dude! Where are you going?"

"The Hy-Vee. I've got to get something," he explained, seeming distracted.

"Can't it wait?" Dean groused, not pleased for Sammy to be going off anywhere alone these days. "I'll come with."

"No, it's fine. Besides, I want something sweet, so just order something and I'll be back before you're done." With that he marched out, leaving a startled and annoyed Dean in his wake.


	11. Chapter 11

The Unthinkable

Dean watched, still perplexed as Sam hastily left and then walked by their window on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. He had his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, and was obviously already lost deep in thought. He didn't stop or even pause when he came even with the Impala. He just kept going and Dean assumed that he was headed for one of the other stores in the shopping center. Maybe he wanted to get a manicure. Who knew what that kid was thinking these days?

"Can I get you anything else, sir?"

"What?" Dean turned back from the window, surprised to find that their waitress had returned while he was lost in his own troubling thoughts.

"Can I get you anything else?" The server looked mildly uneasy, something about his demeanor clearly setting off alarms. "Dessert?"

Food. Right. Dean pasted his widest, most disarming smile on his face. "What do you have that's absolutely smothered in chocolate?"

The server grinned back at him. "We have the Hot Fudge Sundae Extreme. Vanilla-chocolate chip ice cream served on a warm chocolate walnut brownie the size of a salad plate, whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, hot fudge and a cherry on top."  
This time, Dean didn't have to fake the grin. "Perfect. I'll have that." She nodded and turned to go, but before she could walk away, Dean added, "and two slices of apple pie to go."

"With or without ice cream?"

"Without is fine. Thanks."

The sundae, when it came, was sheer heaven, the kind that made Dean wish there was an afterlife beyond Hell awaiting him. Well, Hell or nothingness. He supposed he could always hope for oblivion. It was possible if they could somehow get their hands on the Colt again. But if Heaven was anything like chocolate… an eternity of chocolate bliss, now that was something worth fighting for. Sam was right. Deep fried onions were not God's food. Appetizers, maybe, but the main course had to be all chocolate, all the time. And now he was babbling. Silently, but still babbling. Get it together, Dean. One wacko, emo dude in the family is enough. Sam wasn't back by the time he was done eating, so Dean paid for the check, hit the head and then collected their pie on the way out.

When he got outside, the Impala was no longer where he'd parked it, and for one heart-freezing moment, Dean was certain that Sam had finally done it. He'd ditched him. Ditched him and taken his damn car! Dean stood there, immobile trying to decide what the hell he was supposed to do now when his cell phone started to ring - _Ramble On_. That meant it was Sam. Rapidly pulling his cellphone out of his inner coat pocket, Dean flipped it open. "Where are you and where's my freakin' car, Sam?!"

"I moved it around behind the back of the restaurant, by the dumpster."

Dean was already moving, the plastic bag with the containers of pie swinging from his hand as he marched around the perimeter of the building. "Why did you… did you say dumpster? Sam! Tell me you aren't dumping Pamela's body in some oversized restaurant garbage can!"

"Of course not!" Sam retorted hotly. "Just hurry up so we can get out of here." Dean heard the distinctive thud of the Impala's trunk closing both through the phone and coming from around the corner of the building and then the line disconnected. He snapped his cellphone shut and rammed it back into his pocket. Son of a bitch! What was _up_ with that kid? And what was he doing messing around in the trunk when _Pamela_ was in the trunk? In a parking lot for God's sake! In the middle of the day!

As the Impala came into view, Dean saw that Sam had backed it up to the dumpster enclosure, the padlock for which was hanging open on its hasp. Either the staff of the restaurant left it open during the day or his brother had actually picked it. An empty shopping cart from the Hy-Vee was parked by the rear of the car, its wire frame actually grazing the bumper, and Dean bit down on an instinctive protest. The car didn't look scratched, but Sammy should know better. Shopping carts were the bane of automobiles everywhere, like single-minded, bloody four-wheeled SCUD missiles for classic cars. They should be abolished. As Dean glared at the offending cart, Sam emerged from the dumpster enclosure. When he saw his brother, he hurried to the driver's door, keys in hand. "Let's go."

"I'm driving," Dean announced, setting the pie on top of the car by the passenger door.

Sam frowned, his face starting to take on the appraising look – _Star Trek III, the Search for Weakness_ – that Dean had grown to hate so much. "But your head – "

"Is fine and you need sleep. So gimme me the keys and let's hit the road already." The kid's frown deepened, but he did as Dean asked, tossing his brother the keys as he walked around the front of the car. Dean headed around the rear of the Impala, fully intending to move that shopping cart before they put it in drive and avoid even the merest chance of a scratch on his baby. As he walked up to the cart, though, he stopped and looked down. Something was crunching under his boot treads, something gritty and about the consistency of rock salt. Squatting down, Dean ran his fingers over the material, pinching some between his thumb and forefinger and drawing it up to his nose. It was gray and grainy with little green flecks and it smelled like… Dean had a sudden flash, a vivid memory of his father pouring cat litter on the driveway of a one their briefly rented houses to soak up the oil that had dripped from a leak in the Impala's oil pan. Dean stood so fast that his joints popped loudly. A horrible suspicion was growing in his mind. Sam wouldn't. He just wouldn't. Stepping inside the enclosure, Dean yanked open the lid of the dumpster. On top of the restaurant refuse sat four relatively clean, neatly sliced open, completely empty bags of Tidy Cat Kitty Litter. A large gold medallion on the side of each bag announced that it included new and improved odor absorption. Son. Of. A. Bitch.

"Damn it Dean, we need to…" Sam trailed off the moment Dean walked out of the enclosure and he got a good look at his brother's face.

Disbelieving, absolutely refusing to believe it could be true, Dean simply stared at Sam in silence for the space of several heartbeats. Then, without a word, he put the key in the Impala's trunk lid and opened her up. Litter. The blanket-wrapped bundle that had to be Pamela's body was coated in litter. Dean gaped. He just stood there and gaped until Sam walked up and slammed the trunk lid closed again. The keys jangled in the lock as the lid shut, and Dean automatically pulled them free as he turned an accusing stare on his brother.

"Later, Dean. We'll talk about it later."

Dean's breath exploded from his chest. "You filled the Impala with litter!"

"Later!" Sam hissed. "When we're on the road." He made a grab for the keys, but Dean jerked them out of reach and stomped toward the driver's door. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to go back and punch Sam right in the jaw. Litter!


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 -- Ensure

Sam watched Dean nervously as his brother pulled back onto the I-90. He could practically see the smoke coming out of Dean's ears as he sat there and fumed all the way to Rapid City.

"Dean?" Sam asked, when his brother's grip on the steering wheel had gotten slightly less white-knuckled. "Look man, it's not that big a deal."

"Not that big a deal," Dean repeated. "Not that big a deal? You filled my trunk with kitty litter, Sam!"

"I had to," he replied, trying to keep his tone even and calm in the face of his brother's car-related wrath. The Impala was always such a touchy subject.

"Had to," Dean repeated again.

Taking a deep breath, Sam tried to explain. "Look, Pamela's… dead bodies smell, Dean. Her body is going to start to smell, and – "

"I know that corpses smell! I've seen plenty, in case it's slipped your gargantuan mind," Dean growled.

"Yes, but we don't usually carry the dead bodies around with us," Sam snapped back. He took a deep breath, started to speak, thought better of it, counted to ten in English, Spanish and Latin, took another deep breath and launched into his explanation, ticking points off on his fingers as he went. "The weather has been unseasonably warm and sunny." Point one. "We're driving a solid black car with a decaying body in the trunk." Point two. "That body was stabbed in the abdomen which means that in addition to the smells normally associated with death, we have all of the odors associated with fresh blood and a violently ripped open digestive system." Dean swallowed and look green for a moment, but Sam didn't allow that to stop him. "If we get pulled over for any reason, which does occasionally happen, we really, really don't want the officer to have an excuse – like a suspicious odor – to demand that we open the trunk." Dean grimaced and rolled his eyes as Sam ticked off point four, a sign which Sam took for agreement, however reluctant. "By the time we get to Bobby's place, Pamela will have been dead for almost a full day, and I don't want to pull into the salvage yard with a car that reeks of death. Can you imagine if there were actually customers there when we showed up? Not to mention the fact that Bobby knows Pamela and – "

"I get it. I get it," Dean interjected. "But why did it have to be litter? Why couldn't you just buy a bunch of car fresheners or that Febreeze crap or something?"

"Febreeze? For God's sake, Dean, I am not going to try and Febreeze a dead body!" Sam retorted, incredulous. "And do you honestly think that air fresheners are going to be enough to stop the stink of Pamela's corpse from soaking into framework of the Impala? Do you want your precious baby to smell like bloody death for the next three months?"

Dean blanched visibly, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until the skin of his knuckles was beyond white, until it looked like the skin might actually split open under the pressure.

"Hey," Sam said, reach over and putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. His brother ignored him, eyes frozen on the road ahead. "Hey!" Sam said again, giving Dean a little shake. Suddenly, Dean's hands relaxed on the wheel and he started blinking rapidly. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel one hand.

"No," he said, woodenly. "No. I've had enough of smelling blood to last me a lifetime. Thanks, Sammy."

"You're welcome," Sam said automatically, far more alarmed by Dean's apparent gratitude than he had been by Dean's anger. What the hell was that?

They drove on in silence until Sam leaned forward and turned on the radio. As peace offerings went, it was the best he could do. He grit his teeth and resisted the urge to change the station when Bon Jovi came on. He hadn't been able to stand that band since Dean had died. Way too many painful associations there, but his brother was already tapping the steering wheel in time with the music so Sam ruthlessly suppressed his own response to "You Give Love a Bad Name." It didn't take long for Dean to start singing along, then, abruptly Dean turned toward Sam and said, "Eat your pie."

Pie. Sam glanced down at the floorboard where the bag from Biggerson's rested between his feet. He'd completely forgotten about asking Dean to pick him up some dessert when he'd left the restaurant. He wasn't hungry, but Dean's mood had turned back to the good, and Sam didn't want to do anything to mess with that. The moment he unknotted the plastic bag, he was assaulted by the tantalizing odor of cinnamon and apples. Beads of condensation clung to the inside of the bag, and the Styrofoam containers were still warm to the touch. The pie must have been fresh from the oven when Dean got it to still be so hot. To Sam's surprise, his stomach began to rumble and then growled audibly as he opened up the top container and saw the golden crust of the apple pie inside. Dean laughed, but Sam ignored him as he ransacked the bag, searching for some kind of silverware. Dean would probably just eat the whole thing by hand, but Sam preferred to be a little neater than that. No fork, but there were two plastic sporks. Figured. Taking one, Sam sliced a piece off the end of the pie and stuffed it in his mouth. The crust practically melted on his tongue, and the apples were the perfect balance between tart and sweet. Oh yeah. They could do Biggerson's again.

The pie disappeared well before Sam was full and he found himself eyeing Dean's piece surreptitiously.

"Go ahead, Sasquatch," Dean said, a definite chuckle in his voice. "I'm still stuffed."

Sam hesitated, but when Dean just went back to singing, he dug in. Once all the pie was gone he leaned back against his seat with a replete sigh and closed his eyes.

When he awoke it was dark outside, raining, and they'd come to a dead stop, surrounded on all sides by other cars. Dean had the radio turned down low and was lightly drumming his fingers on his knee while he held onto the wheel with the other hand. You could hardly call it steering since the Impala wasn't moving. "What's up?" Sam yawned.

Dean shrugged. "Radio says a big rig overturned up ahead. Guess it was hauling steel beams. Chain broke when the semi went over, the beams scattered, and the road's completely blocked." Dean took his hand off his knee and started massaging his forehead.

"How long have we been stuck?"

"Three-and-a-half hours," Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes were squinted against the glare of the rain-soaked headlights coming from the cars lined up like dominos behind them, ahead of them and to either side.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"For what? So you could sit here and be bored with me? You needed the sleep." Dean was rubbing at his forehead again, and Sam suddenly recalled something else that he'd picked up at the Hy-Vee. Reaching over the front seat, he found the small polystyrene ice chest he'd gotten at the grocery store in the back footwell and popped the top off. Nestled inside was something that he knew, just knew, was bound to piss Dean off, but sometimes his older brother just didn't have the sense to take care of himself – so someone had to do it.

"Here," Sam said, unscrewing the top of the bottle and handing it to Dean. His brother took it without looking, but when he heard the crinkle of the plastic in his fingers he looked over and scowled.

"What the heck is this?" he demanded, eyes wide.

"Ensure. It's good for you."

"Have you completely lost your mind? This is that crap that old people drink. People older than Rufus, for Pete's sake!"

"Dude, you're exhausted. Between Alastair and Pamela and that whole astral projection mess, your reserves have to be depleted. I know mine are," Sam said reasonably. "You need to keep your strength up."

"With this?" he asked, outraged. He jiggled the container contemptuously. A few drops splashed out onto the seat, and he wiped them up hastily with his sleeve.

"Your headache's back, isn't it?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, the Ensure has protein and vitamins and minerals, and it will hydrate you."

"I'm not a plant, Sam. You don't need to _water_ me, and I ate a big lunch."

"Cheeseburgers are not sufficient nutrition, Dean. You need to – "

"I'm not drinking it. Besides, it's hot. The only thing worse than old people crap is _hot_ old people crap."

"It's not hot. I kept it on ice, and –"

"You actually bought ice for this? I knew you were a nerd, Sammy. I didn't know you were an honorary old person."  
"Whatever, dude. Just drink it."

"No," Dean said, shoving the bottle back at Sam.

He took it back with much grinding of teeth, but he couldn't resist one final attempt to persuade Dean. "It's chocolate," he added hopefully.

"No, Sam. Uh uh. No way. Not happening."

"Fine, then. I'll drink it."  
"You do that. And quit trying to mother hen me."

Sam scowled as he twisted the cap back on the Ensure bottle and then set it aside. He reached once more into the back footwell, and this time he pulled out one of the Glacier Freeze Gatorade bottles that he'd also stashed in the tiny ice chest. "Here," he said, handing the new bottle to Dean with a resigned sigh. Dean glanced at it suspiciously, but accepted it with alacrity once he saw what it was. While he was drinking, Sam pulled the Ibuprofen out of the glovebox and offered that to Dean as well. His brother frowned dubiously for a moment, but when one of the cars behind them began to honk its horn, Dean snatched at the small bottle of painkillers and downed two. His own body tired and achy, Sam opened the Ensure back up and quickly drank it. Dean was right. This stuff tasted like crap, chocolate-flavored crap.

They sat in silence for a time, the only sound the periodic annoyed hoots of the neighboring cars and the soft sound of the radio. Dean switched it back to the traffic alert channel, listening intently for any hint about how much longer they'd be stuck. One hand played idly with the empty 32 oz. Gatorade bottle, then he suddenly began to laugh. "Ya know, Sammy, if I wind up having to pee while we're stuck in this mess, I'm going to have to thump you."

Sam snorted startled agreement. Dean would have to mention that. Now he needed the bathroom. They grinned wryly at each other for a moment before Dean went back to staring out the windshield at the rain-soaked interstate. Sam gazed thoughtfully at his brother's profile, then turned away, knowing how much it would bother Dean if his brother caught him watching him with a _goopy_ look on his face. If there was one law that ruled their lives on the road, it was the "No Chick Flick Moments," rule. But there were moments when it could be unbelievably difficult not to break that one, moments like now when Sam was just unutterably grateful to have Dean solid and alive and at his side. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been certain they'd never have this again, that _he'd_ never have this again. Dean had accused him of being a worrywart on more than one occasion, but it was so hard not to worry when you knew just how easily your whole world could be taken from you. Exhausted, tired, cranky, weak. None of that mattered as long as Dean was _there_. In Greybull, being locked in that hotel room with Pamela's cooling body and Dean's still form had been a nightmare. He'd almost lost Dean. Again. He couldn't bear that. Dean had been to Hell, but Sam had known Hell too, known it intimately those four months that his brother had been gone. Sam had accused Dean of falling apart after their father died, but it was Sam who had gone completely to pieces, Sam who had lost every semblance of sanity and rationality when he'd lost Dean. He'd been on the brink of true madness those last summer weeks, and only Ruby had kept him from going right over the edge. Dean just couldn't seem to understand that.

And then… the miracle.

The rescue by the angels had been an answer to prayer, to Sam's prayer. He had prayed every day of the year of Dean's deal while his brother slowly wasted away, while he died bit by bit, as surely and painfully as any cancer patient. He had prayed even harder after Dean had been killed by the hellhounds – had prayed to find a way to save Dean from Hell, had prayed for his brother to brought back to him, and then, in the end, when all hope seemed lost of getting Dean back, Sam had prayed only for his brother to spared pain. What happened in Pontiac, to see Dean again, to touch him again had been a true miracle.

God had heard his desperate plea. God had answered his prayer.

But now, damn it, now it seemed like the universe was conspiring to take his big brother away from him, just when he'd gotten him back. First there was that demon, the one Dean had called Flo, who'd threatened him the very day after his return. Then Jack, the rugaru they'd tried to help, had nearly eaten Dean. Then there was the wacko vampire shapeshifter, the ghost sickness, the crazy old magicians, that filthy bitch of a siren, Alastair, and even the very angels who had rescued Dean from Hell. It was unbearable.

Uriel had shown himself more than ready to hurt Dean, and Sam hadn't doubted for a moment that the angels would carry out their collective threat to send Dean back to Hell if he didn't hand over Anna. An angel was going to send Dean back to the pit. An angel. The very beings who'd given Dean back to him, and now they were threatening to take him away. The pure blinding fury that the threat had filled Sam with had surprised even him. If it weren't for the fact that Alastair was so dangerous in his own right, Sam would cheerfully have watched the demon tear the angels to shreds. But not Dean. Oh no, not him. Even after the threats, the betrayal and the sheer cruelty, Dean had jumped in to try and save Castiel when Alastair had the angel pinned and helpless. And he hadn't gotten so much as a thank you for his trouble. Then, come to find out, the angels had not only threatened Dean himself, they'd threatened to kill Sam. It was the one threat that Dean could never brush aside or disregard, the one threat guaranteed to make him tow the angelic party line. Sam, who had been trying, ironically enough, to convince Dean that being saved by angels was a good thing, that the angels were on their side, that things were actually going their way for once, had been devastated.

What did it say about the world when angels were bloodthirsty, cold-hearted, unforgiving bastards, and the only creature who seemed to genuinely care about Sam, to genuinely care about what Sam wanted and about helping him defeat Lilith and protect Dean was a demon? A demon that Dean, being Dean, wanted to kill. And while Ruby was trying to help Sam, even worrying about the distance that seemed to be growing between Sam and his brother, the angels were doing their best to drive Sam and Dean further and further apart with their innuendos and less than subtle hints about how Sam was going darkside. It was ridiculous. As if killing demons could be a bad thing, no matter how he was doing it. As if stopping Lilith and saving Dean wasn't more important than anything else.

It was enough to make Sam's head ache as much as his brother's obviously did.

Sam dug out his phone and opened it up to check the time. It was dark, but not remotely late yet. "Listen," he said, catching Dean's eye, "I'm going to call Bobby and let him know we're coming and what we're bringing with us. He needs to be prepared."  
"What?" Dean said, sounding perplexed. "I thought you already called Bobby when we were in Greybull."

"Honestly, between worrying about getting out of there, worrying about you, and worrying about not getting caught with Pamela's body, it totally slipped my mind."

"I just thought you had already…" Dean's eyebrows drew together, his forehead wrinkling as he turned and gazed abstractedly at the road ahead of them. "Never mind. I guess I was pretty out of it for awhile there."

"Man, you really were," Sam agreed, relieved that Dean was finally admitting how bad things had gotten.

"Anyway, you should call him. We don't wanna just show up on his doorstep with Pamela like, well, like this."

"Yeah." Sam found Bobby's name on his contact list and hit send. The phone only rang three times before the older hunter picked it up.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 – Bobby's Idjits

Bobby sat at his desk in the kitchen, trying and utterly failing to research kitsunetsuki for Jeffery Gunderson. He knew it was important, knew Gunderson was more than slightly wigged out by the completely unfamiliar form of possession even if it was potentially benign, but Bobby just couldn't find the will to concentrate at the moment. Mostly he just listened to the rain pattering against the shingle roof of the house and pinging off every exposed bit of metal in the salvage yard. John Winchester – and it would be John Winchester – had given him hell for that once, calling it a salvage yard. Said the name was stuck up, just a pretentious label for a basic junk yard. Bobby had shot back with some crack about trying to salvage things rather than destroy them. They'd both been drunk and, for once, it had just been a friendly little disagreement instead of an argument that ended with Bobby sighting down the barrel of his shotgun and John driving away in a rage. Sam and Dean had been there for that one, playing with toy cars on the rug on the living room, Sam solemnly driving his down roadways constructed of stacked books while Dean had his careening off anything and everything. Bobby could still remember the looks on those kids' faces when he presented them with matching Matchbox cars, exact miniaturized replicas of the family automobile. Sam had no doubt tossed his years ago, but Bobby couldn't help but wonder if Dean still had his stashed away somewhere, maybe in a lockup like the one John had kept in upstate New York.

So… mostly he just listened to the rain and didn't research kitsunetsuki. He also didn't think about Pamela. He didn't think about the day he met her while chasing a water sprite through an empty waterslide park in the middle of the Dakota Hills. He didn't think about the way her whole being lit up when she listened to that god-awful noise she called music. He didn't think about her smile or her sparking eyes, gone because he'd introduced her to the Winchesters and gotten her mixed up in the war between Heaven and Hell. He didn't think about the evening she broke up with Mike Stern and then showed up drunk as a skunk on his doorstep. He didn't think about the night that followed or the one that followed that or the one that followed that. He didn't think about her breasts, her hips or any of the other parts she liked to tease him with long after they'd gone from sometime playmates to just good friends. Ironic that in their case they really had become good friends. He was too old to keep up with her as anything else and just old enough not to resent it. She'd gotten back together with Mike and broken up with him just as rapidly a half-dozen times since then. More importantly, she'd made him laugh, and she'd been damn smart too. So he didn't think about any of it.

It was closing on nine at night when he finally heard the roar of the Impala pulling up outside his front porch. He hadn't left the gate to the salvage yard unlocked, but it had been more than two years since he'd given the Winchester boys a set of keys to everything from the gate and the house to the gun safe and the tow truck. Two years and they still hadn't thrown a single wild party while he was away. The closest they'd come was using the place to house one renegade angel and one enigmatic demon while he was in the Dominican Republic.

Damn but those kids had strange lives, even for hunters.

The downpour had stopped for the moment. If they were lucky, they could take care of things before it started up again. Dean was turning off the engine as he stepped outside, but Bobby hurried over to the car before either of them could get out and rapped on the passenger window. Sam rolled it down, a somber, almost apologetic look on his face. "Hey, Bobby," he said quietly, Dean echoing him a heartbeat later.

"Boys. Listen, pull it around back. The arrangements for this are going to take some time so… "

"Freezer?" Dean asked, looking vaguely sickened by the prospect. Bobby nodded and the kid fired her back up. He trailed after them, not precisely in a hurry to catch up as the Impala vanished around the corner of the garage. Like all hunters who had a permanent residence, Bobby liked to keep enough food and supplies on hand to survive a minor apocalypse which was why he had a 130-square-foot dry storage, a 60-square-foot walk-in freezer stocked to the ceiling with protein in all the flavors of the rainbow and a generator with enough fuel to run the thing for three months in the event that they lost power for an extended period of time. Bobby, however, was little paranoid even by typical hunter standards, which is why he also had a backup generator, a backup to the backup, an iron-clad, salt-soaked panic room and enough ammunition to fight a small war. And just in case that wasn't paranoid enough, well, the old-fashioned, completely non-electrical cold cellar hidden beneath the floor of the panic room was nobody's business but his own. Regardless, cold storage was not a problem. He just wasn't used to storing human bodies, especially the bodies of dead friends. He'd only done it once before and this time didn't look to be any more pleasant than the last.

By the time Bobby joined them, Sam was already out of the car and opening the trunk while Dean examined the latch on the freezer door. If he hadn't known that Bobby was right behind him, he'd probably already be trying to pick it in the shadowy light provided by the half moon shining intermittently through the stormy clouds. Dark or no dark, storm or no storm, Bobby wasn't turning on the exterior lights. They were pretty isolated out here, but he still didn't think it would be wise for them to be lugging a dead body around under the glare of the 400-watt salvage yard lights.

"Nice lock," Dean noted with a wry grin as handed him a ring of keys he pulled from his coat pocket. "Seen easier ones on a couple of safes."

Bobby just snorted and put a hand on his shoulder. The kid was a little wobbly on his feet, more so than could be accounted for by the death of a woman he hardly knew. Not that Dean and Sam hadn't both taken to Pam right off, but she was still a relative stranger to them, and they'd both stood stoically by through far worse losses. At least Dean had. Sam usually let his emotions all hang out, especially when it came to grief. Now, whatever the cause, Dean was shaken, was literally shaking as the keys in his hand trembled and clinked together ever so slightly. You'd think the lock on the freezer door was deliberately fighting him. Bobby didn't try to help; that would only humiliate Dean and set his back up. The kid was standing, talking and basically functioning, so whatever it was could wait until they'd finished dealing with Pamela's remains. Then Bobby would deal with the Dynamic Duo.

Giving Dean's shoulder a quick squeeze, Bobby went over to help Sam with Pamela. She'd been dead for more than twelve hours, and getting her out of the trunk should prove entertaining. As for why it had taken those boys half a day to cross two states, that was just one little question in a great big pile of questions that he had for those two. Sam had been fiddling around with something in the trunk, but when Bobby walked up beside him, he was absently brushing his hands on the thighs of his jeans. Sam nodded at him, but didn't speak. Bobby patted his arm absently, already contemplating how to shift the body without doing it any more damage than absolutely necessary. He reached into the dark shadows of the trunk, pushing at the blanket wrapped body to check how completely the rigor had set in. To his surprise, what he felt was not cheap cotton. It was gritty. Frowning, Bobby rubbed his hand back and forth over the length of the corpse. It was completely covered in grit. Cupping his hand, Bobby pulled some out and peered at it suspiciously. It was like sand. What could possibly cause a body to do this? Even a demon killed body.

"Get me a flashlight kid," Bobby demanded, turning his puzzled look on Sam. "There's something strange here."

Sam didn't move, but Dean snorted audibly from inside the opened freezer. He said something, but just then the compressor kicked on and Bobby couldn't understand him. "What?"

"He said, 'don't bother,'" Sam sighed.

"Don't bother? Have you idjits lost your senses? Her body is – "

"It's litter, Bobby," Sam said, cutting him off in exasperated tones. "And I really don't want to hear it."

Bobby gaped at him in the dark as the heavens opened up and soaked them both.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 – Graviora Manent

"It's litter, Bobby," Sam said, cutting him off in exasperated tones. "And I really don't want to hear it."

Bobby gaped at him in the dark as the heavens opened up and soaked them both. Lightning illuminated the inside of the trunk for a flashing second, showing every granule of litter in ghastly detail. They stood there, staring at each other until Bobby suddenly started snickering. Peeved and rebellious suddenly gave way to incredulous on Sam's face and the boy actually took a step back to get a better look at him. "Sorry," Bobby shrugged. "It's just the litter… in Dean's precious car… Pam would've laughed so hard she'd have peed herself."  
Sam looked more appalled than ever and Bobby laughed all the harder. A voice sounded behind them, louder than the thunder overhead. "Well don't just stand there, you two! Get the damn body out and let's get moving," Dean hollered over the noise of the rising wind.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on," Bobby snorted, but the laughter faded as he got a closer look at the elder Winchester. Dean had his coat collar turned up against the chill of the storm, and rain ran down the bridge of his nose and dripped off the cleft in his chin. He was shivering and trying to control it, arms clasped tightly around his torso. Soaking wet and hip-deep in snow, Dean had shown less reaction to cold than this. Bobby turned back to the trunk. The faster he dealt with this, the faster he could get Dean inside and start getting to the bottom of this. Sam must have been thinking the same thing because he was already up to his shoulders in the trunk, hands buried in the rapidly wettening litter. It was beginning to take on the consistency of wet cement, hampering their efforts to extract Pamela. The storm was directly overhead, the cracking of the thunder thankfully masking the cracking sound of Pamela's joints and bones as they forced her unwilling body from the trunk. Even with the bass throb of the storm reverberating in his bones, Bobby could still feel each individual crunch and pop vibrate through his fingertips. Dean tried to squeeze in between them and help with the maneuvering, but Sam snarled something at him, unintelligible to Bobby over the sound of the storm itself, and the kid backed away, retreating under the overhang of the garage.

Once Pamela was balanced on the edge the trunk, Sam hoisted the muddy, blanket-wrapped body up onto his shoulder and stumbled toward the open door of the freezer. Bobby hurried ahead of him to make certain that there nothing in the way. The moment he got inside, he found that Dean had already shifted the contents of the freezer about. Five hams, two fifty-pound boxes of venison and a quarter of a beef had been moved to the floor at the end of the aisle, leaving a long, narrow stretch of metal shelving open for Pamela. Sam eased her into place with Bobby's help. They didn't bother trying to straighten out her limbs. The rigor was still in effect and Bobby, for one, had had more than enough of breaking bits of his friend, dead or not. They'd straighten her out and clean her up later, before they let anyone else see her. They hurried out of the freezer to find that Dean had closed the trunk of the Impala and was backing it away from the freezer. They ran around the side of the garage and back to the house, arriving just behind Dean. The elder Winchester pulled his and Sam's go-bags from the backseat and then followed them up onto the porch and into the house.

All three of them were soaked to the skin. The boys stopped just inside the doorway, dripping onto the dusty floor as Bobby latched and locked the door against the rising wind. Then he leaned back against it and whipped off his waterlogged hat. What hair he had left on the top of his head was plastered into place, and the rest hung damply against the back of neck and his cheeks, trailing little rivulets of rain. He needed a haircut. Except for the not being bald part, the boys looked little better. For a moment, the three of them just stood there, staring at each other. Then Sam took his go-bag from Dean and announced that he was going to hit the shower. He clomped up the stairs three at a time, disappearing rapidly from view. Bobby gestured for Dean to follow him, but the kid shook his head.

"Age before beauty, old man," Dean quipped, dropping his own go-bag where he stood. He shuffled over to the couch and began the laborious process of excavation. He groaned artistically as he shifted pile after pile of books and papers. Okay, so maybe Bobby needed to invest in a few more bookcases and trunks.

"Dean, you look frozen solid and you're dripping on my research. Why don't you use the shower in my room, and I'll go after you and Sam are done."

"Nah. Old dudes first," Dean insisted. "You have weaker immune systems than us young studly-men."

Bobby huffed in irritation, but he didn't stay to argue. Dean could be as stubborn as his father sometimes, and the sooner Bobby showered, the sooner he could get Dean warmed up and then interrogate the crap out of him. Bobby was never one to linger in the bath, but tonight he took one of the fastest showers of his life. If he knew Sam, and he thought he knew Sam pretty well aside from that whole embracing demon-power crap that had shocked the shit out of everyone, Dean included, then the kid would be in the shower for quite a while. That floppy hair of his required the same kind of care that a girl's hair typically did, and Sam was fastidious to boot. Bobby did the bare minimum with the soap and shampoo, warmed the chill out of his bones, and then hurried into the first clean clothes he could dig out the basket at the foot of his bed. As he passed what his wife had always insisted on calling the guest bathroom, and which he thought of as the extra crapper, he could hear Sam splashing around. Good, now if the kid would just stay there, maybe Bobby could get Dean to open up. Dean had never been one for showing weakness around his baby brother, and these days it was worse than ever.

When Bobby got back downstairs, he found Dean slumped on the couch, eyes closed. For a second he though the kid had fallen asleep, wet denim and all, but Dean cracked one eye open when the older hunter approached. "My turn?" he asked tiredly. Bobby nodded, but the kid didn't move except to close the one eye he'd opened.

"Dean, are you all right?" Bobby blurted out. So much for easing into this conversation, he thought, disgusted with himself.

"I'm fine, Bobby."

"You're a damn long sight from fine, boy."

"I'm just tired," Dean said with a shrug, still not opening his eyes or moving anything except his shoulders and lips.

"This is more than _tired_, kid," he said, dropping down next to him. "You're a wreck."

"Pamela's dead, Bobby," Dean snapped, sitting forward to rest his elbows on his knees and fixing the older man with a challenging look. "How should I be?"

"This isn't about Pamela's death and you know it." Bobby paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he went on. "You know it. I know it. Something else happened in Greybull, something that's got you more shaken than I've seen you since Cold Oak."

Dean flinched and began to rub at the damp arms of his jacket. All but growling with frustration, Bobby grabbed an afghan off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around the kid's shoulders. Dean didn't object, just continuing to shake as he dropped his head into his hands. All the color seemed to have drained from his chilled skin, and Bobby debated silently with himself whether getting Dean to spill his guts was more important than getting him into a warm bath. The scholar in him won out over the latent parental instincts and he poked Dean's leg to get his attention again. "Come on, kid. Talk to me."

"I'll be fine. There's nothing to talk about," Dean said with what he no doubt thought was a reassuring smile. Bobby'd seen more convincing ones on corpses.

"The hell there isn't," he retorted, clamping a hand onto Dean's arm and giving the kid a little shake. "If something new is brewing, I damn well need to know about it. Stop being so bloody self-sufficient for five seconds and tell me what's going on." Dean looked away, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "I already know Alastair was involved," Bobby continued. "That demonic son-of-a-bitch being there has to mean something especially nasty on the horizon."

"The demons have been breaking seals all over the place, Bobby," Dean insisted. "This is just one more seal, one they didn't fucking get."

"Yeah, but Alastair isn't just one more demon. He's your personal demon, so don't tell me that this is just some damn coincidence that you two came up against each other over the same seal!"

Dean gaped at him, his eyes widening and what little color he had left draining rapidly from his face. "How could you… how do know about Alastair?"

"Did you honestly think that Sam _wasn't_ going to tell me about the ancient, super-powerful white-eyed demon who is personally after your ass? Be serious! This monster tortured you for forty years in Hell. He _didn't_ kill you on three separate occasions when he had the chance – "

"He gave it a damn good try!"

Bobby continued as if Dean had never spoken. " – and now he gets ahold of you when you're having an out of body experience, next best thing to helpless, and yet somehow he still doesn't kill you and you get away?! You're not seriously going to sit there and tell me that nothing important happened in Greybull. Spill it, Dean!"

Dean's eyes were a little wild, his breathing fast and shallow, just this side of hyperventilating. He swallowed, clenched his eyes shut, then opened them and actually focused on Bobby's face. "I can't… Alastair didn't let me go. He wanted… Damn it, Bobby. I can't talk about this!" Dean sprang to his feet and went to stare out the window into the rain-soaked darkness, his fists clenching at his sides, the afghan falling to pool at his feet.

Bobby got up and went to stand behind him, placing a hand tentatively on Dean's arm. "At least tell me how you got away from that bastard," he said reasonably, careful for once not to let his irritation creep into tone. The kid was too on edge already. That much was obvious even to dumb tow-truck driver like him.

"I told you. I don't want to – "

"He didn't get away," Sam said. Dean's arm tensed under his hand at the sound of his brother's voice. Bobby turned and saw that the youngest Winchester was standing in the doorway of the living room, towel drying his hair. "Castiel saved him. I guess he forgave us for that whole Anna debacle."

"Angel radio girl?" Bobby asked

"Mm hmm. First time we've seen Castiel, or at least that Dean's seen him since the whole Godzilla vs. Mothra thing. It is the first time, isn't it?" Sam looked at Dean expectantly, and his brother shrugged agreement. Sam grinned wryly at Bobby. "I admit, I'd started to wonder if Dean wasn't right about all the angels being dicks, but now I think it may not be that simple. At least, I can't ignore the fact that Cas swooped in and saved the day, saved Dean twice. That has to mean… " Sam trailed off as his gaze drifted over his brother again. His brow wrinkled in irritation. "Dean you're still soaked. Why haven't you showered yet?"

"And which shower was I gonna use, Sammy? They were both occupied. Or were Bobby and I supposed to have a very a special moment together, because… euwww."

Sam rolled his eyes, then pointed imperiously toward the stairs. "Shower. Now."

Dean looked at Bobby out of the corner of his eyes. Then, grabbing his go-bag from the floor, he snapped a salute in Sam's general direction and bolted for the stairs. Damn it, Bobby thought furiously. Just when he'd been getting somewhere.

"So, Bobby, you got any beer?" Sam asked, grinning once more.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 - Hot & Cold Running Souls

After Dean made good his escape from Bobby's too perceptive questions, he did what Sam had nagged him to do and headed straight for the shower. The steaming water washed away more than just rain and mud. It washed away some of the pain, too. Once he was clean, he turned off the shower, and began to fill the tub, pleased to discover that Bobby's waterheater showed no signs of running low. He sighed as he lowered himself into the damp heat, grateful to feel it spreading quickly, sinking into his bones, and his consciousness floated away.

_The blood was warm on his hand, glistening even in the dim half-light of Hell's twilight. It never ceased to surprise Dean, that heat, because most of Hell was cold. At least the corners of it that he'd seen were. Even the fire used to brand and boil souls burned without warming. Everything was frozen. Everything. The rack on which he'd spent his first three decades here; the teeming pits where most of the damned waited, utterly ignored by the demons, tormented only by themselves and their fellow sinners; the abodes of the fiends themselves, icy bowers which froze the lungs and stole the breath from all but the oldest of demons. And most oppressive of all, the great endless blanknesses where nothing stirred or moved. An infinite landscape of emptiness, a void so all encompassing that even screams could not be heard there, blood could not be smelled, pain could not be felt. A soul so trapped was left with nothing on which to dwell but itself, on its own emptiness. Being left there for more than moment could drive any soul mad, could torment even the demons in ways that left them quivering a begging for forgiveness for whatever crime had consigned them there, totally alone. Of course, Alastair found the place restful, found it soothing and would take Dean there from time to time. It was what he feared most of all, what he dreaded more than Alastair's icy embrace, more than the chill burn of the branding irons, more than the quickening erosion of his own humanity. Alastair would laugh and pet him as he clung to the demon's golden robes, to his scaly red legs, his taloned hands, whatever purchase he was so kindly permitted to maintain. And he did cling, would beg, would do anything not to be left there… again._

_It had happened only once, immediately following Dean's escape from the rack. He had said yes, had taken up Alastair's blade, but that first soul, slicing into it, cutting it apart bit by slow bit had made him sick. He'd turned on Alastair, tried to attack and been swatted aside as effortlessly as he might once have killed a fly. He'd been left broken and battered on the stony ground at the foot of the rack, the blood from the soul he'd tortured slowly dripping onto his naked back, a grinding reminder of what he'd done. Dean had expected to take its place immediately, to begin his own torture anew, but Alastair had merely grabbed him by the back of the neck and transported him instantly to the void. Just how long he was left there, Dean didn't know. He would never know. But when the torturer had finally returned and offered him a second change at the blade, Dean hadn't hesitated. He'd ripped the next soul apart in a frenzy, desperate to prove himself to Alastair, desperate not to be left _there_ again. The blood had utterly covered him, warm and sticky. It was the first time he'd felt heat of any kind since his death, the first pleasurable sensation he'd known since the Hellhounds ripped him apart, and even the frosty touch of Alastair's body pressed full-length against his back had not been able to dispel the toasty warmth._

_Then Alastair's hands had been on his stomach, his chest, his legs, sliding over his bloody skin, slipping from place to place to pinch and grab, fondling parts of him there were no words for, touching pieces of him that had no name, groping his very soul. It had been unbearable, yet he had borne it because it was still better than the rack and infinitely better than the void. From that moment on, he had belonged to Alastair and Alastair alone._

_After that, it became easier and harder not to think of Sammy, easier because Alastair kept him so very busy and harder because, when he did slip up and think of Sam, he couldn't help but consider what Sam would think of him now, lying in Alastair's jewel-toned, wiry arms. An interesting facet of Hell he would never have expected was the way demons looked when they weren't dressed up to go out. On Earth, they appeared as black smoke, the charred remains of a tortured and evil being. In Hell, the damned souls resembled their human selves at first. Then, as their souls were distorted and twisted, the psychic projection of who they were became warped as well. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe their appearance just changed to reflect who they'd been all along. Who could say? Alastair probably knew, but Dean never worked up the courage to ask him. Another interesting aspect of Hell… there were no mirrors, no reflective surfaces of any kind. It was only in the eyes of other damned souls that you could see what you were becoming, or worse, in the shiny, shiny black eyes of the demons. But Alastair's eyes were solid white, always, and Dean never caught a glimpse of what he himself was becoming._

_His hand still looked normal where it gripped the blade that had become an inseparable part of him. Pale and coated with warm, gooey blood, but otherwise normal. Alastair's monster hand lay over the top of his human one, gently guiding him through cut after cut. His other hand was on Dean's belly, making small absent-minded circles on his skin as the demon enjoyed the dual torment of the tortured soul on his rack and the equally tortured soul in his arms. Dean shivered, tightening his grip on the knife, focusing on the small amount of heat emanating from the bloody remains of what had once being a living being and was now about to become a demon. The cold was a dead giveaway. He could tell that transformation was near, would soon see this soul off Alastair's rack. Like all newly born demons, it would immediately flee. The newly born clamored to leave Hell, anxious to return to the light and warmth of the Earth. And somehow, some of them always got out. Maybe they could squeeze through cracks that more powerful and elderly demons could never enter. Maybe their recent humanity just left them more attuned to the Earth as whole, a kind of demonic homing device that led them where they wanted to go. It didn't matter either way because Dean knew that he would never leave Hell, would never return to the Earth. Alastair would never allow it, and even if he would, there was nothing left for Dean there. He'd been in Hell for forty long years. By now, everyone he'd ever loved was bound to be dead, and everyone he wanted to kill was equally out of reach. So he waited for the transformation that would take away his memories of life and the pain that went with them. Sam…_

_Dean flinched as Alastair's hand clenched on his, the claws of the other hand digging into the muscles of his abdomen. He didn't like it when Dean allowed himself to be distracted from the work, and he really, really didn't like it when he caught Dean thinking of his brother. Shark-like teeth bit down on the side of his neck and scorching-hot blood fountained from Dean's throat. He jerked and groaned, tears springing to his eyes and the blade falling from his trembling hand. Alastair dragged him to ground beside the rack, pinning him in place as he sucked Dean's boiling hot blood past his icy lips and down his frozen throat. The demon was angry, but he was also excited. He toyed with Dean, alternately caressing and clawing at his flesh, Dean screamed, but he didn't fight. All the fight had been beaten out of him so long ago._

_Then, just when Dean was praying for Alastair to become bored with his little make-out session, he'd been blinded by a light that shone so brightly that it burned right through the closed lids of his eyes. And then Alastair had screamed and Dean had known true fear. He clenched his eyes ever more tightly shut. Anything that could frighten Alastair was nothing that Dean wanted to see, nothing he wanted to even contemplate. So he cringed away, burrowing into the ground, trying to disappear beneath the demon that sheltered him. Then the demon was gone and Dean was on fire._

He awoke screaming.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 – Naked Truth

Dean jerked upright in the now frigid bathwater, throat tightening like it was trapped in a vice. He gasped then cursed as his feet slipped and he slid further down into the tub. He grabbed the soap dish with one hand, the edge of the tub with the other and hauled himself out of the water. He stepped out of the tub, dripping, and reached for his clothes, but they weren't there. He'd left his go-bag on the floor by the bathroom door, but it seemed to have grown feet and wandered away while he was sleeping. His shoes had also walked away on their own it seemed. Sam. It had to have been Sam. If this was some stupid prank or, worse, a misguided attempt by Dean's brother to force him to go immediately to bed, Dean was going to strangle him. Slowly. Snatching a tattered old towel off the rack, he wrapped it around his hips, hit the switch for the overhead fan to clear the lingering steam from the air and headed for the guestroom he planned on hijacking for the night. Sam could fucking well sleep on the couch downstairs by himself, or he could spend the next three hours clearing all the boxes of random mystic crap out of the other spare room. Either one suited Dean just fine. He slammed the guestroom door behind him, tossed the towel on the bed and bent to pull the box of spare clothes that he and Sam kept at Bobby's out from under the bed.

"Did you have a nice dream, kiddo?"

Dean spun around. Alastair was standing just behind him, still wearing the meatsuit he'd worn in Greybull. He was close enough to touch, close enough to touch Dean, and Dean recoiled instinctively. His legs hit the edge of the bed, and he fell backward, landing bare-ass naked and terrified on the quilt. He scrambled back on hands and heels until his shoulders bumped up against the headboard. Alastair leaned closer, eyes rolling over white, and Dean's heart pounded in his chest, adrenalin pumping. "Sam!" he screamed. "Sam!"

There was no sound of pounding feet on the stairs, no rescue thundering down the hallway, only silence. Then the demon laughed, straightened and took a step away from the bed. "Sam!" he yelled, his voice a mocking echo of Dean's. "Oh, Sam, big brother needs you!"

"Fuck you," Dean growled. Rolling off the other side of the bed, he grabbed the towel and wrapped it back around his hips. The bed and the demon were now between him and the door to the hallway, but at least he'd put a little more distance between himself and his old master. How had Alastair found him? How had he gotten away from the angels at all? It didn't make sense unless –

"I'm still dreaming. This is a just a nightmare," he muttered to himself, clenching his eyes and hands closed. "It's just a freakin' nightmare."

"So eloquent, my boy. You have such a gift with words."

"Wake up, Dean," he chastised himself. "Just wake up."

"Sorry, kiddo. This is my waltz, and we're not leaving the dance floor until the music is done."

Dean's eyes snapped open, and he glared at the demon. "You can't be here. The angels snagged your ass in Greybull. They fried you. I saw it. No way you just walked away from that."

"You're right, my boy. I didn't. At least, my body didn't. But my mind, well, _cor ad cor loquitur_. Angels aren't the only ones who can go dream walking. As for my capture, the angels don't have the power or the cajones to truly bind me, not sufficiently to keep me away from what's already mine." He ran a hand suggestively over the bedding, caressing the fabric with his finger, and the look he fixed on Dean's all but bare body was decidedly lascivious. Dean shuddered. Something had the demon excited, something had him feeling _playful_, and that never ended well for Dean.

"How you could honestly believe that those pathetic choir boys could keep me from you I'll never know. Still," he conceded, "considering how stupidly I slipped into their trap, I acquit you of thinking me weak, if only for a moment. _Te absolvo_." Alastair waved a hand magnanimously in Dean's direction. "But you can hardly blame me for falling into their hands when they baited their trap with such sweet meat. I shouldn't be here now, I should be contacting reinforcements, and yet, _adsum_." The demon walked around the end of the bed, fingers still trailing across the quilt. He closed in on Dean's personal space, backing him toward the corner of the room. Dean hated that he was so afraid, hated that Alastair could intimidate him so easily, but he still backed steadily away. Humiliated by his own weakness, he lashed out mindlessly.

"Dude, seriously, what's with the Latin? You've got to know I have no idea what the hell you're saying."

Alastair laughed, closing the space between them by another step. "Yes, well, your consternation is half the fun, my boy."

"Oh yeah, so what's the other half?"

Alastair grinned, his white eyes glittering before rolling back to their more human mask. "Do you know where my name comes from Dean? Did you ever wonder? After all, you know how old I am. Do you honestly think there were any Alastairs wandering around the earth ten thousand years ago when dear little Lilith created me?"

Dean blinked. What the hell? Seriously, what the hell did that have to do with anything? "I can honestly say I never gave it much thought," he finally retorted.

"That's one of the things I like about you Dean, your ability to focus." Alastair chuckled. "When you're working, you're all business all the time, at least you were downstairs. But I digress. There's a reason that demons almost always go by the names of their meatsuits if they give a name at all. You see, names have power. If they didn't, no summoning spell in creation would be worth more than the paper it's written on. Even in Hell, _especially_ in Hell, among their own kind, demons are reluctant to share that one vital statistic. And of course, so many of us forget them anyway. Oh, the name is usually the last thing to go, the last bit of humanity to which we so stubbornly and futilely cling, the last vestige of a non-demonic existence. And then, for most demons, one day it's just gone. Poof." He spread his hands in a vanishing gesture. "No more name. No more identity, except the new one that you carve for yourself. That's the fun part, the carving. But then, you already know that, don't you?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Good memories."

Dean sneered, his anger actually taking him a step closer to the demon as he snarled a reply. "I remember you screaming like a little girl the last time I saw you in Hell. One look at an angel and you were quivering in fear."

Suddenly, Alastair was right in front of him and Dean found himself being slammed up against the wall by the bed. The towel hung onto his hips, barely. The demon leaned in close, his lips sliding along the edge of Dean's jaw before settling beside his ear. "And I remember the part that came right before that, how you squirmed in ecstasy beneath me, how your blood tasted like honey in my mouth." His teeth closed on the hinge of Dean's jaw, and Dean spasmed, his body beginning to shake.

"Ecstasy?" he stammered. "You were fucking chewing on me!" He shoved at the demon, knowing it would be futile but unable to stop himself from fighting back as Alastair pinned his wrists to the wall above his head.

"I like chewing on you," the demon whispered, his voice gone alarmingly husky as Dean struggled in his arms. Alastair's teeth closed over his throat next, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave Dean gasping in pain. The demon's free hand reached up under the towel, closing on the back of Dean's thigh where it alternately pinched and kneaded his bare flesh. Dean writhed in his grip trying desperately to pull away. Alastair made a sound alarmingly like a purr. "And you like being chewed on," he added.

"The fuck I do!" Dean growled, managing to free leg sufficiently to kick at the demon.

Alastair chuckled. "The Romans used to say that love is rich with both honey and venom. I suppose it was too much to hope that you found as much pleasure in our dalliances as I did, but that will change with time." Alastair leaned away, still holding Dean pinned to the wall with one long arm, but no longer breathing down his neck. "Now, as I was saying, a few of us do remember who we once were, and we guard that memory closely. Very, very closely. Often times we'll kill, destroy or maim anyone else foolish enough to claim they know our true name until no one does. So, we take the names of our meatsuits. Some of us, especially the newborn, change names as often as we changes bodies, only holding onto a name if we're purposely trying to be remembered, to be noticed. Those of us with a few more years under our belts tend to be less flighty. When we find a name that we like, one that speaks to us, we hold onto it for a while, even when the meatsuit is so much dust and decay. That's how I got Alastair. You with me so far?"

Dean gulped, fighting to control the tremors that ran through him at Alastair's every slightest movement. To have the demon touching him again was all but unbearable. "I thought you were going to tell me what was up with the Latin, but if you've decided to change tactics and bore me to death… no wait, the Latin thing would do that anyway," he said with what he knew deep down was false bravado.

"Tsk, tsk, Dean. No need to be so ADD. Just pay attention to Daddy's story like a good little boy. Now, to resume, Alastair was a young man when I first took him, barely old to have chest hair, but oh so very intriguing. Beautiful, intelligent and with a few vices that surprised even me. I suppose you could say he was precocious. Not as catastrophically precocious as you, by any means, but still a gifted young man with a dark, dark future ahead of him. He actually summoned me and volunteered to be possessed because he wanted to learn from the best. This was the early nineteenth century, you understand. The British upper crust had recently become obsessed with what it amusingly considered to be _dark magic._ So adorable. But Alastair wasn't satisfied with the petty psychological powers to be gained from curses, ill-wishing and reading the Tarot. He hungered for something more, and I provided it. He was a quick study, too. Like you. After I left him that first time, well, he went on to do things alone that made even me proud. Seems he paid attention." Nausea churned in Dean's gut as the demon rhapsodized about his former meatsuit. Dream or no dream, he had to get away from Alastair, but every attempt to shift the torturer's hold met with complete failure. Worse, the demon didn't even seem to notice his attempts to free himself. He might as well have tried to shift a boulder with a toothpick for all the notice that the monster took of his efforts.

"Over the years I came back again and again, and each time he welcomed me in. That kid was born with a soul blacker than the darkest pits of Hell. We had good times, he and I. He moved to France, at my behest of course. He was hardly likely to deny his personal guardian angel a little thing like a change of citizenship. Then, during World War II, we specialized in helping Jewish families hide from the Nazi's. We were good, too. The Nazi's never found a single one of our special guests. Of course, neither did anyone else. They disappeared most entirely. And do you know what the best part was? The absolutely best part was his name. Alastair. It means, 'Defender of the People.' How perfect is that? Because that's what I am, Dean. I am the defender of our people. Not just demons, you understand, but humanity as a whole. God created us and Lucifer refined us. We are their masterwork. Bloodthirsty and brutal with an infinite capacity for creativity. What more could anyone ask of us?

"But no matter how much I adored Alastair's eager endeavors on Hell's behalf, and no matter how much I enjoy using his name as my own, it isn't really who I am because , unlike so many of my lesser colleagues, I remember who I really am. In all of creation, only Lilith knows my true name. Lilith knows, and now, you will know too."

"But why would you… " Dean trailed off, baffled by this bizarre turn of events. Then, before he could collect his scattered thoughts, he found himself landing on the bed with Alastair straddling him. The towel had finally given up the ghost, and the demon pressed full length against Dean's damp and naked body. He shuddered.

"Everyone wants to be known, Dean, even if only by one person." The demon gazed into his eyes, snake-like and totally focused, and Dean felt as helpless as any rabbit. "I know you from the inside out, and now you will know the real me. Besides, I want you to understand who I really am and just what I'm truly capable of. I want you to know just how much I can teach you once you give yourself to me. I want you to know that my offer to heal little Sammy is one hundred percent legit. And I want you to know why the angels will never, never be able to keep us apart." Dean flinched away as Alastair clamped a hand on his jaw, forcing it open for a kiss that left him both sickened and utterly humiliated. Then, the demon's lips were on his ear once more and he spoke a single, damning word.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 – Clandestine Comfort

Sam was tired as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Tired and maybe just the littlest bit tipsy. The six-pack he'd initially set out to split with Bobby and Dean had turned into a six-pack, a fifth of Jack and just him and Bobby. They'd both expected Dean to come join them after his shower, but halfway through the beer, Dean had called down that he was going to hit the sack. So he and Bobby had sat together, raised a glass or two in Pamela's memory, avoided the entire topic of the Apocalypse and generally not talked about anything much at all. It had been restful to just sit with someone like that, without having his every thought questioned, his every action picked apart and analyzed for ulterior motives. Sam sighed. It had been a long time since he could just be like that with someone other than Bobby, with his brother for instance. Anyway, that had been more than three hours and a lot of alcohol ago. It was still pretty early for bed by hunter standards, or by twenty-five-year-old standards for that matter, but he was tired. So he told Bobby goodnight, grabbed a couple bottles of water to ward off a dehydration hangover and headed upstairs to join Dean in the guestroom.

The bedside lamp was still on when Sam cracked open the bedroom door and slipped inside. Whether Dean had left it on for his brother's benefit or had just fallen asleep before he got around to turning it off, Sam didn't know. Dean was lying on his back on the side of the bed farthest from the door, his arms resting on the covers, crossed over his chest like some kind of medieval effigy of a knight errant. Sam's lips twitched into a smile. Dean had always had a knight complex, slaying dragons, rescuing damsels and saving the world. At least, that was how he'd been before everything had changed. Now there were dark circles under his eyes even while he slept. There was also a trail of dirty clothing and dirty towels from the door to the foot of the bed. Typical Dean. Sam carefully repositioned the stacks of books and pamphlets – he thought they were called incunabula – on the nightstand by his side of the bed to make room for his water bottles. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he bent and retrieved the clothes. Bobby didn't possess anything as girly as a hamper, and Sam didn't want to trek all the way back downstairs to dump everything in the washroom, so he draped the still damp fabric over an assortment of chairs, bookcases and tables to let it dry in the hope that it wouldn't mildew. He'd deal with it in the morning.

Dean didn't stir when Sam climbed onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard. Though he was tired, Sam wasn't actually sleepy yet, so he dug through the books on the nightstand for some light bedtime reading. Hah. There were plenty of books he hadn't read before, but only three of them were in languages he understood. One was a reproduction of a two-hundred-year-old herbal in Spanish, one was a hand-written collection of ancient religious ceremonies in Latin and the last was in modern novel in English. A modern romance novel. Jess had called them bodice rippers. Sam, young and idiotic, had decried the genre as outdated and sexist, and he'd mocked Jess for reading them until she pointed out, with condescendingly tolerant amusement, just how many of her tops he'd actually ripped during their more energetic sessions of love making. The number had topped a half-dozen, and he'd shut up after that. Still, he was surprised to find such a wonderfully lurid example of the breed here. _Moonlit Promise._ Somehow, it just didn't seem like the sort of thing that Bobby would read for pleasure. Sam started flipping through the pages and snorted when he came across the first marginalia in the older hunter's handwriting. Well that explained everything. The book wasn't just a romance. It was a period romance set during the Civil War and the heroine was a witch. Her rival also appeared to be a witch and the hero was a 165 pound paperweight as far as Sam could tell. At first, Sam figured it must have been a slow week if Bobby was mining poorly researched romance novels for lore, but as he continued to skim, he quickly realized that the book wasn't poorly researched at all. In fact, he'd have bet that the author was a practicing witch herself, a real one. Huh. Flipping back to the beginning, he started reading from page one, hoping to glean some clue of the true extent of the author's knowledge from the text. An hour later, the worst of the storm had passed outside, the din of the rain on the junked cars all but inaudible. Inside, Sage was being dragged from her home by renegade Confederate soldiers while her lover, Captain Damon Huntly valiantly – and fruitlessly – fought to throw off the effects of the spell holding him enthralled to the service of the beautiful but selfish Diana. Things were just starting to look promising, Huntly had lost half his clothing in a river and Sage had lost all of hers, when Dean jerked in the bed beside Sam as if someone had poked him.

"Dean?" Sam whispered. There was no response and Dean didn't move again, so Sam opened his book up and rapidly became reimmersed in the adventures of his witchy little heroine. Sage was just about to cast her own spell on Huntly when it happened again. This time, Dean grunted and jerked so hard that he shook the whole bed.

"Dean?" Sam asked again. There was still no response, but Sam didn't trust it. Dean was always in motion, always a blur of energy. When he was up he was way, way up, but when he slept he didn't usually move at all. Setting his book aside, Sam shifted slightly so the light from the bedside lamp would fall across his brother's face. Dean's eyes were whipping back and forth under his eyelids like the needle on a hyperactive EMF. That meant he was dreaming and dreaming meant nightmares. At least it always had since his time down under. In all their long years sharing bedrooms and beds alike, Sam had never known his brother to show any outward sign of dreaming. No twitching, no sleepwalking, no grunting or groaning, no talking or action of any kind. He must have had nightmares, every kid did, but Sam had never had any proof, and Dean never would have confessed it even if he had. And there was a time when it would have helped Sam to know that he wasn't alone, that he wasn't the only one dreaming of monsters in the night. But back then, Dean had to be the strong one, the one who never showed weakness. Now Sam had proof, had more proof than he wanted, and Dean still wouldn't admit to bad dreams. That would be too girly. Sam's jaw clenched. Sometimes he got so sick of Dean's hypocritical, macho bullshit. And yet... and yet part of him wished for the return of the invincible, unafraid big brother. He just didn't quite know what to do with the new, lesser model. He felt so helpless. So ungrateful. So confused. So impatient. So worried. Pick your damn adjective.

Dean's eyes continued to dance, and Sam wondered what exactly he was dreaming about. It was Hell. He knew it had to be Hell. The only question was, which part of Hell. Was Dean dreaming of the years he'd spent on the rack, or the years he spent over it? Was the knife in his hand or in Alastair's? Was it pain or pleasure he remembered in his sleep, agony or ecstasy? And why did wondering make Sam want to vomit? It wasn't like either of them had never done anything bad. It wasn't like he blamed Dean for breaking in Hell. Anyone would have broken. Anyone else would have broken ten times faster, a hundred times faster. Dean was so strong, so naively noble. Why couldn't he see that? Why did he have to insist on wallowing in self-pity for a crime that no rational person would blame him for? Why did he have to have such ridiculous expectations of himself, of Sam, of the world? Despite everything, Dean seemed to want to make the world into some kind of fairy tale, a fairy tale kingdom where good was good and bad was bad and heroes never faltered. That world didn't exist, and Sam, for one, was sick of pretending that it did. It was a dangerous fantasy. But thinking of Dean with that knife in his hand, somehow it still made him feel sick at his stomach.

Disgusted, Sam turned away and snatched his book back up. But Sage could no longer distract him. Anger churned in his gut as he thought of all the plotting and scheming that had gone on just to put Dean on that rack, just to see him damned. Azazel had wanted Sam to lead his piss-poor demon army. No, that wasn't even true. He'd wanted one of the psychic kids to lead his piss-poor demon army; Sam had merely been his favorite of the bunch. It sucked out loud, but it was simple and fathomable. A demon had needed a human to go where no demon could go and do what no demon could do, opening the Devil's Gate. No more surprises there. Mystery solved. Why the demons had wanted Dean so badly, that was the million dollar question, and Sam meant to get his hands on the demon who had all the answers. One way or another, Lilith would give him what he wanted.

"No."

The word was clear and unmistakable, and it nearly gave Sam a heart attack. Great, now Dean was talking in his sleep. That was going to make falling asleep himself a little challenging. Maybe he should go sleep on the couch in the living room? It was short, but Sam had managed it on more than one occasion in the past. He could –

"No!"

Sam sat up straight and turned to get a better look at Dean. His brother's face was twisted in a mask of pain, and his hands had fisted in the quilt. Sam gulped. His desire to avoid another pointless scene warred silently with the voice of the little brother inside him who insisted that he couldn't just get up and walk away when Dean was in pain, even dream pain. He glanced toward the door, still contemplating his options, when the sound of his own name shocked him to his core.

"Sam… No. Please… Sammy…" Dean's voice was quiet, the words mumbled, but somehow they sounded like screaming in the night-dark stillness of the room. Sam swallowed back tears as his brother arched in his sleep and moaned, his face contorting until it was almost unrecognizable as human. He couldn't leave him like this. How could he even have _considered_ leaving him like this? Sam reached out to shake Dean awake, but he drew back at the last second. If he woke Dean, he'd have to tell him why. And if he told him why, Dean would be certain that Sam was just accusing him of weakness… again. No, he had to do this without injuring Dean's pride any worse than it had already been injured. Things were still too raw between them after that siren business, the wounds still too fresh. "_I wouldn't want to hold you back."_ Dean had said they were past it, but his tone hadn't agreed with his statement. No way was Sam calling him a crybaby now, even if Dean was the only one who'd see it that way.

Turning quickly, he grabbed the biggest book on the nightstand, it was the Spanish herbal, and dropped it so it landed on the hardwood floor by the bed with a resounding smack.

"Wha?" Dean jolted and sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. A year ago, waking up suddenly like that would have guaranteed the presence of at least one weapon in his hand, probably a knife, whether they were safe at Bobby's house or not. Now, Dean was weaponless, looking baffled and vulnerable as he shivered and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to bring his vision into focus. He looked around, scanning the room rapidly, but it was as if he didn't even see Sam. Whatever he did see must have reassured him, though, because he fell back onto the bed with a groan, the palms of his hands covering his eyes. Sam waited until he was certain that Dean was awake enough not to freak out at the slightest movement, waited a bit longer than that for Dean to get a decent game face on and then…

"Oh, crap! Sorry, Dean. Man, I am so sorry," Sam deliberately babbled as he fumbled at the already sturdy stacks of books on the nightstand, trying to give the impression of frantic straightening as he watched Dean out of the corner of his eye the whole time. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was just reading and I managed to knock off some of the stuff and, you know the way that Bobby keeps things piled up on every surface in this place and – "

"Dude, are you drunk?" Dean demanded irritably, lowering his hands and squinting at Sam. The brightness of the lamp behind Sam was clearly bothering his eyes.

"Well, maybe just a little," Sam temporized, letting a hint of inebriation creep into his voice despite the fact that all the alcohol was long out of his system. Getting drunk was something that Dean would be able to understand, something he would believe plausible in the aftermath of Pamela's death. More importantly, it was something that wouldn't freak him out, and it worked. Though clearly jittery and revved up on adrenalin, Dean sounded tired and worn out as he muttered something about bulls and china shops. Then he rolled over, ostentatiously turning his back on Sam, the lamp and the world in general. "Just try and it keep it down, Sasquatch." He punched his pillow into shape for emphasis and sighed pointedly. "I don't wanna hunt right now, so no waking the dead."

"Yeah. Sure, Dean." Sam hastily agreed. "Do you want me to turn off the light so you can go back to sleep?"

"Nah," Dean said without turning around. "You can keep reading. I wouldn't want my genius brother to go into withdrawals or anything."

Dean sighed again, for real this time, and settled more firmly into the blanket. The conversation was clearly over. Sam picked up _Moonlit Promise_ and began reading again, all the while keeping a close watch on his brother. These days, Dean rarely got back to sleep easily after he'd been woken. If he'd woken up from a nightmare he was even less likely to doze off again, and this time was no exception. A half-hour later, Dean was lying silently on his side of the bed. He didn't fidget and his breathing was even, but the tension in back and shoulders was a dead giveaway. Sleep wasn't coming back. Sam held back an exasperated sigh. This whole situation would be so much simpler if they weren't a couple of, as Jo had once put it, emotionally constipated men. But they were, so Sam would have to get creative.

Pretending to be stealthy, Sam slipped off the bed and dug through his go-bag for an extra t-shirt. If Dean thought he was cold, it would make all of this so much easier. He pulled the shirt on over the one he was already wearing and then hastily got back into the bed and slid between the covers, not having to fake his urgency. The storm-chilled hardwood had sucked every ounce of warmth out of his feet. Dean shifted slightly as the mattress dipped, then flinched when Sam's cold, pajama-covered thigh bumped up against his back. He didn't complain or move away, though, and Sam knew he'd made the right decision. Using a yawn and stretch for cover, Sam shifted closer until his leg was actually pressed up again his brother's back. Dean had always been very tactile with him when he was little, hugs, piggyback rides, more hugs. Man, he'd even hugged Dad, something Sam rarely had the nerve to do. The hugs had largely disappeared after Sam's flight to Stanford, but there had still been slaps on the back, punches on the arm, and the perpetual messing with Sam's hair. For all his tough image, all his poo-pooing of chick flick moments, Dean was a pretty physically demonstrative guy where family was concerned. But like everything else, that had changed after Hell. No, be honest with yourself, Sam. It changed after Ruby, after Dean found out about what Sam had been doing with Ruby. Sam would never have believed that he'd miss the pokes and prods, the juvenile yanks on his hair and the hard smacks on the back that could send him stumbling despite the four inches he had on Dean. Not that he was whining. What he did with Ruby was necessary, and losing his brother's unthinking, knee-jerk affection was a small price to pay for a shot at Lilith. No, the real problem was that it made it so much harder to offer Dean the physical contact that he craved and the support he so badly needed, now, when he was falling apart.

Sam flipped pages audibly, knowing the background noise would actually help Dean sleep. He also hummed a little to himself as he pretended to read about Diana's gradual seduction by the dark side of the force, as she turned to black magic to try and steal the noble Huntly from the equally saintly Sage. She was such an idiot. Deals with devils never ended well. Other things were working out better, however. Gradually, the tension had eased out of Dean's shoulders and back, and Sam knew his brother had finally fallen back to sleep. He flicked off the light with a sigh and stretched out beneath the covers, relieved beyond measure to finally be able to go to sleep himself.

This clandestine comfort crap was a serious pain in the ass.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 – It's All in the Details

Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs with cheese, and toast with butter and marmalade. Sam groaned around a delicious mouthful. It was one giant heart attack waiting to happen. Then again, Bobby had been eating like this, not surprising since he was the cook, for more than half a century and he was in great shape for an old guy. Even more impressive, he was a fifty-plus-year-old hunter. That took skill and an iron constitution. Man could not live by salad alone, though there was absolutely no way Sam was ever going to admit that to his brother. Dean had already been up and gone when Sam awoke, but Dean had actually gotten a decent amount of sleep last night, considerably more than he had. He'd come downstairs to find Bobby nursing a cup of coffee while flipping through a book on Japanese folklore. The hunter had grunted a good morning at him and then pointed at the stove. They'd stayed with Bobby often enough for Sam to get the message. He'd opened the warming door on the oven and found breakfast inside, covered with clean bit of flour sack.

"Where's Dean?" he'd asked.

"Somewhere around the place. He was up and running with the sun. Thought that was usually your schtick?"

"I didn't get much sleep last night," Sam had begun, but Bobby was already absorbed back in the pages of his book, and Sam had let the matter drop. Eventually, Bobby drifted back toward the living room, and Sam gave his whole attention to his breakfast. Diner food just could not compete. He made it through all the food and two cups of coffee, a vague recollection of John grumbling about growth spurts playing across his memory. He smiled to himself as he chewed his way through the last of his toast, So few memories of Dad made him smile these days, but Sam's sudden and occasionally alarming growth spurts had driven John crazy in those last few years, and the whole thing was funny to him now in retrospect. At twenty-six, he was pretty sure he had finally stopped growing, but you never knew. He was sipping at his third cup of coffee when Dean appeared across from him and smacked a small, red plastic nozzle down on the table.

Sam raised his eyes from his cup but didn't stop drinking. Dean looked better this morning. He look _a lot_ better, and Sam felt a weight that he hadn't even realized he was carrying fall from his shoulders. Dean clearly wasn't going to drop dead or have some kind of breakdown over his encounter with Alastair. Thank God. There was still a quite a lot on Sam's shoulders – killing Lilith, the end of the world, the Apocalypse, all that jazz – but at least one piece of that burden was gone for the moment. Dean's brows crinkled when Sam said nothing. Looking irked, he nudged the nozzle toward his brother and watching him expectantly, evidently awaiting some sort of reaction.

Sighing, Sam set his cup down and picked up the bit of plastic. "What's this?"

"Shop vac," Dean said, looking marginally satisfied.

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Pretty small shop vac," he noted.

Dean grinned maniacally. "The rest of it is waiting out by the car." He began to rock back and forth on his heels with a distinctly self-satisfied smirk. "Time for all good little boys – and the huge obnoxious ones – to get to work."

Sam blinked at him, perplexed for a moment, then… "Dude! Seriously? You're holding the litter against me?"

"Damn straight," Dean retorted. "You messed my baby up, now you fix her."

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation and expelled his breath in a huff. "I didn't mess your baby up, Dean. I just – "

"There's kitty litter in my car, Sam. Kitty litter. _Everywhere_. I opened the trunk this morning hoping that it was all just a bad dream, but nooo." Dean clutched dramatically at his chest. "It looks like I've been hauling a dozen cats across country. I can't deal. I absolutely can't deal."

"Now?" Sam asked, hating the whine he could hear creeping into his voice. That mournful, accusing look that Dean had trained on him made him feel about twelve. A very naughty, very immature, very burdensome twelve.

"Right now," Dean said adamantly, folding his arms across his chest and scowling at his younger brother. "Time to begin Operation Litter Abstraction." Then he shrugged and the scowl dropped off his face. "Besides, I already let you sleep in, and it's gorgeous outside. You need some sun before you turn into a gargoyle."

"Oh, look who's talking," Sam rejoined. "I've got three times as much tan as you."

"Hey, it's not my fault you got all the tanning genes and I got all the freckle genes. I may not live long enough to get skin cancer in my old age, but let's not tempt fate any more than necessary. It already hates my guts. So get to cleaning."

Clutching the nozzle in his hand, Sam stood slowly. He debated arguing further, debated demanding that Dean at least help with the clean up, but then he just shook his head. "Jerk," he huffed as he walked away.

"Bitch," Dean answered, taking Sam's place at the table and picking up his brother's almost full coffee cup. "Have fun."

Shaking his head, Sam marched out onto the porch, but he drew to a stop when he reached the steps. Dean was right. It really was beautiful outside. The few clouds that hung in the blue sky looked like stretched cotton balls, soft and white. The air had that crisp, sharp quality that you only got after a really heavy storm, and sunlight reflected off every surface, making the world look bright and fresh, nearly blinding him with its brilliance. Turning a one-eighty, Sam went back inside for his seldom used sunglasses. As he passed the kitchen doorway, sunglasses in hand, he saw Dean still sitting at the kitchen table drinking Sam's coffee, a morning newspaper on his lap, his feet propped up on the table, crossed at his booted ankles. Sam was on verge of telling Dean that he really should come outside with him, at least for a little while, when his brother stopped him short with a, "Less talking and more cleaning, Sasquatch."

Sam manfully resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at Dean. They weren't twelve years old. At least, he wasn't twelve years old any more. Sometimes he wondered about Dean. He headed back outside and skipped down the steps. Dean _had_ been busy that morning. The Impala was parked in the middle of the large, clear stretch of cement that Bobby used when he restored junkers for a little extra cash. The trunk lid stood open as did all four doors. Apparently Dean felt that a little kitty litter and a dead body merited a full airing out. The red and white shop vac sat on the ground beside the open front passenger door, and a heavy orange extension cord trailed from the vacuum to a power outlet on the exterior wall of the small tool shed that served as a kind of mini-mechanic's bay. Ranged beside the shop vac were two buckets, a coiled up water hose which was also connected to the tool shed, a beat-up old aluminum garbage can without a lid, a small handbroom and dustpan, a pile of clean rags, four brand new sponges and a box of assorted cleansers, waxes and polishes.

Who did Dean think he was kidding? There was no way, _no way_ that Sam was going to detail the Impala just because Dean was feeling a little… damn it! How did he do it? After all these years, all the crap, how could Dean still manage to push every button Sam possessed? Grumbling – and grinning despite himself – Sam clicked the nozzle onto the shop vac and dragged it around to the end of the car. At least the weather was perfect for this, and though he would never admit as much to Dean, the car meant a lot to him too. When Dean was… gone, in a very real way, the car had been the only family he had left. Spending some time giving it a little TLC wouldn't kill him.

Sam's good mood had dimmed somewhat after an hour of digging damp clumps of litter out of the trunk. He thought he'd finally gotten it all and was just about to open up the trunk's inner lid to make certain that no granules of litter had gotten into their weapons cache when Dean ambled up, a half-drunk bottle of beer in his hand. He peered around the edge of the trunk lid, and fixed Sam with a mock steely gaze. "You missed a spot," he noted, pointing to a shadowy corner. Sam scowled at him wordlessly, but Dean just sauntered away toward the house. Growling, Sam snatched a dirty rag out of one of the buckets and chucked it at the back of Dean's head. His brother raised one hand and casually flipped him off without bothering to look back, but Sam could hear him chuckling as he walked away.

Turning back to the trunk, Sam dealt with the spot Dean had pointed out and then yanked open the inner lid. He froze, a heartfelt curse on his lips, when he was saw what was inside. Their weapons and supplies were covered in a fine layer of dust. "Son of a bitch!" The litter really had gotten everywhere.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 – Things Heat Up

Dean paused on the bottom step when he heard Sam cussing behind him. Uh oh, he thought, sounds like the kid's hit a snag. He considered – for all of five seconds – going back to lend a hand, but Sammy was a big boy and he could handle it. Besides, he'd gotten a little big for his britches lately, and it wouldn't hurt him to remember who the real big brother in this family was. Maybe if Sam remembered that small detail, Dean could, too. Besides, what was family without a little brotherly one-upsmanship? Score: Dean Winchester, 13; College Boy, zilch. Shaking his head in bemusement, Dean took a swig of his beer and clomped up the steps and into the house. Bobby was pulling on a tattered old fleece jacket over his equally aged John Deere t-shirt when Dean walked into the mudroom off kitchen.

"Hey, Bobby. Heading out?"

"Yeah," he said, pulling on one of his mesh trucker caps. "Mike Stern finally returned my call. I'm meeting him in town to discuss arrangements for Pamela."

"Mike who?"

"Stern. He's Pamela's on-again off-again and the closest thing she has to next-of-kin. He's also a hunter to boot. I've been trying to get a hold of him since Sam called me last night. Luckily, he's in the area so he should be here by the time I'm done getting those pictures I took for Eli Klein developed."

Dean took a swig of his beer, contemplating what little he really knew about Pamela. "I thought she was hooked up with some guy named Jesse."

"Nah. That was her high school sweetheart, lasted all of three weeks when she was fifteen."

"And you know this because…"

"I asked, ya idjit."

"Huh." Dean took another pull on his beer and stared at his feet while Bobby fiddled with a selection of keys in an old mason jar by the door, looking for the one he wanted. "So, why are you meeting him in town? Why not just have him come out here?"

"Because he doesn't know about Pamela yet, and this is not the kind of news that I want to deliver in private. At least, not with Mike Stern. He's got a hell of a strong temper and a stronger left hook."

Dean's back straightened at the implied threat and he took a step closer. "You need me to come with you?"

"Oh yeah, that'd be a big help, you two trying to out-macho each other. I'll pass," Bobby answered dryly.

"If you're worried about – "

"I can handle Mike Stern, kid. I just don't want him to break any of my stuff when he hears the news. He'll keep it together in public. By the time we get back here, he might even be calm enough to meet you and Sam without pulling a gun."

"Might?" Dean asked, blinking rapidly.

"Hey, no promises. I'm not taking the rap for this one."

"Swell. Listen, Bobby, I'm sorry about – "

"S'ok, kid. S'ok. I'm just blowing off steam. This isn't easy for any of us." Bobby clapped Dean on the shoulder and then opened the door. "Mind the store," he ordered, shutting the door behind him as he left.

"Yes, sir," Dean said, to the closed door. Then he downed the rest of the beer and went in search of a computer. There were things he needed to look into, and something told him he'd better get his research done before Bobby showed back up with little Mikey in tow. He'd have to warn Sammy too. The last thing he needed was for Sam to start babbling apologies at some strange hunter. As a rule, hunters had a tendency to view apologies as admissions of guilt. It was one of the few things they had in common with lawyers. If Sam expressed his remorse and sympathy in the wrong way, Stern might just decide he was to blame for Pamela's death and take him apart at the seams. Admittedly, post-Hell Sam was not exactly lacking in muscle, but no matter how you looked at it, it was a lose-lose situation. If Sam got his ass kicked, Dean would have to rip the guy apart and they'd have made another enemy. If Sam kicked Stern's ass, then they'd still have made another enemy. Plus there was the small matter of just how easily Sam seemed to lose his temper these days. Bobby wouldn't appreciate it if Sam killed this Stern guy.

Life just sucked out loud sometimes.

Dean paused on his way to fetch a computer and gazed out the kitchen window. Sam had a tarp spread out on the ground by the Impala's trunk, and he was shifting the contents of the trunk to the tarp as Dean watched, spreading them out in the sun. Huh. Looked like little brother was taking this cleaning thing pretty seriously. Dean smiled. Alastair had tried his damnedest to convince him that Sam didn't really care, that he viewed Dean as nothing more than an inconvenient obligation. But the way the kid was going at this cleaning gig spoke louder than words. If he really didn't care, he'd have told Dean to shove his head up his ass and do it himself. If he was just going through the motions out of guilt, he'd have done a token job on the litter and left the rest of the car in its original state of dusty, mud-spattered decrepitude. Nope. Only Sammy would detail a car – and a weapons cache – out of love. Ahhh. He was so cute when he was all earnest and chick-flicky.

Alastair could take his offer and kiss Dean's lily-white ass. He and Sam were going to be just fine.

So, on to the research. As with so many things, packrat Singer had multiple computers on hand. You never knew when you'd need a fallback option, after all. That being the case, Dean decided to give poor Sam's computer a pass and dug out one of Bobby beat up old laptops instead. He stored them, to Dean's amusement and Sam's horror, in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Sam had protested this fact until he was blue in the face, but Bobby had just shrugged and said it wasn't a problem. And since no sink in Bobby Singer's house would ever have the audacity to leak, Dean figured it probably wasn't. The laptop he chose, just because it was on top, was probably one of Ash's rebuilds, judging by the condition of the housing and the number of random wires sticking out of the thing in odd places. As long as it could get online, though, that was all Dean cared about.

Grabbing another beer from the fridge, he took the computer into the living room. There he sprawled on the couch, put his feet up on the stack of old National Geographics that was currently doing duty as a coffee table and booted the laptop up. When the Windows logo came up three times faster than he'd expected, Dean knew that he was dealing with one of the late, lamented Ash's machines. Let's hear it for the Lynrd Skynrd look-alike from MIT, he thought. After a brief side trip to his favorite website – and come on, who didn't love Busty Asian Beauties – Dean Googled the web address for the Greybull Gazette. His memories of going astral were a little hazy in places. Whether that was due to the concussion, the demon attack or just the norm for astral travelers, Dean didn't know. But certain things were very clear in his memory. Alastair's offer was one. The warehouse that Cas and Alastair had trashed between them was another. The place had been on fire when he and his guardian angel had booked it out of there, and Dean couldn't help but wonder what had happened. He remembered firemen showing up, remembered worrying that they would see him and Cas. Now, he just worried about what might have happened to the firemen after they left. The blaze hadn't looked too bad, but…

When the website for the Greybull Gazette came up, Dean punched in the date he wanted and waited for the headlines to appear. Greybull was small enough to cover with a hanky, so he figured the warehouse fire would be front page news. It was, but it wasn't the headline. A small story on the bottom right gave the name of the warehouse as Martin's Merchandising, noted the time that emergency response arrived on the scene and went on to say that the fire was rapidly contained although the building suffered serious structural damage. No one was hurt, and the blaze was being blamed on a random lightning strike. That was a relief. Not that he would have done anything differently, but Dean would have felt guilty if some poor schmoe had wound up investigated for arson or some such. Satisfied that Alastair and Castiel's prize fight hadn't done any lasting damage, except maybe to an insurance company's profit margin, Dean clicked the link that led back to page one and read the headline that had displaced his own news.

"Trailbreak Hotel Burns to Foundations, 1 Fatality." Dean sat bolt upright, his feet sliding off the magazine stack and the computer nearly sliding off his lap. The Trailbreak was the name of the hotel that he and Sam had stayed in while they were in Greybull. He rapidly scanned the article, his heart pounding in his ribcage the entire time, then went back and read it through carefully from beginning to end. The place had burned the same night that Pamela had died. From the look of things, the fire had started within hours, maybe even within minutes of the Winchesters hitting the open road. It had to be more than a coincidence. There was no way that a town that size had two major fires in one night, within hours of each other, and it wasn't related. Maybe the demons had struck the hotel as some kind of twisted retaliation for he and Sam stopping the breaking of the seal. But the angels had captured Alastair. Surely the other demons were too busy running for cover to take out a roadside rat's nest out of petty spite. Maybe…

Dean's breathing stopped and his thoughts slowed until there was only one word left echoing in his mind. No. No. He didn't. He couldn't. Sam had changed, it was true. He had a lot fewer qualms about pretty much everything these days, but he was still Sam. He was still Dean's kid brother, still the guy who wanted to protect everybody, even vegan vampires. He wouldn't have set fire to the Trailbreak just to cover their tracks. He wouldn't… but Dean just couldn't shake the little voice in the back of his mind that whispered, _he might._

Jumping to his feet, the open laptop dangling from one hand, Dean barreled outside. Sam was squatting beside the tarp, minutely examining one of their machetes when Dean skidded to a halt beside him. "What the Hell is this?" he demanded, shoving the computer at Sam as he stood. Startled, Sam fumbled to get a grip on the laptop, dropping the machete which clanged noisily against a half-full canister of rock salt.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam asked, his eyes widening as he took in Dean's agitation.

"What did you do?"


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 – Things Fall Apart

Sam reeled back as Dean slapped the flat of his hand down on the trunk of the Impala, slamming it shut. "What did you do?" he pressed.

"I don't…" Sam looked from Dean's irate expression to the laptop. The screen had gone blank. Shifting it until he had a better grip on it, Sam hit the space bar. It came up on what looked like an online newspaper article. Scrolling up, Sam saw the headline. There'd been a fire at their hotel in Greybull, a fire with one fatality. No. No, no, no. It couldn't be. It couldn't. Ruby wouldn't have killed someone just to cover their tracks. She wasn't like that. She had a conscience, despite being a demon. She helped people, despite what she was. Like him. Sam speed-read his way through the article, Dean eerily silent and still the whole time, except for his heaving breath. Sam knew that his brother was watching him, watching his face, waiting for some sign that Sam had known about the fire. Sam struggled to keep his feelings and thoughts off his face until he was certain what had really happened. The situation with Dean and Ruby was just too volatile, their feelings about each other too heated for him to risk throwing fuel on that fire.

He heaved an internal sigh of relief when he came to the paragraph about the dead man. The body found in the ashes and rubble had been identified through a single surviving fingerprint as one Parker Whitcliff, a podiatrist from California who'd been on the missing person's registry for more than six months. From the description, the corpse was the meatsuit that the demon who'd killed Pamela had been wearing. The police and fire investigators might not realize it, but their victim, and current suspected arsonist, had been dead before the fire had broken out. But damn it, what was with the fire anyway? Surely Ruby could have found a less destructive way to deal with the evidence they'd left behind. No time to think about that now though. A dozen different explanations, a dozen different justifications for Ruby's actions ran through his head, but Sam disregarded them all. Steeling himself for what he knew was bound to be a huge argument; he looked up and met his brother's eyes.

Swallowing nervously, he said, "We left too much evidence behind, Dean. I took care of it." He knew he was underreacting, that he should be acting outraged, defensive, something. But all he felt was a kind of numb shock.

"Took care of it?" Dean repeated, his eyes going still wider. "You call this taking care of it?" He turned away, running a hand anxiously through his short, spiky hair. "No," he said, turning back. "No, wait. How… You were with me the whole time." The look he fixed on Sam now was puzzled, thoughtful. "That place wasn't burning when we left, and you never went back," he said, working it out aloud. "Unless… you didn't go back later? You didn't leave me somewhere while I was out and – "

"No, of course not!" Sam snapped indignantly, trying hard not to think about all the times he'd done exactly that since Dean had returned. It was different though. Leaving Dean when he was asleep was one thing. Leaving him alone and helpless when he was injured and unconscious would have been an entirely different matter.

"Then you couldn't have started the fire. So how – "

"Look, Dean, what does it matter how it happened?" Sam asked, anxious to cut Dean off before he could make the jump to the most obvious solution. "It needed dealing with. I handled it." But from the look on Dean's face, it was already too late.

"Oh, you handled it, all right," his brother ground out, shaking his head, clearly infuriated. "You called Ruby. Didn't you? That phone call, I remember thinking that you were calling Bobby, but then later you… and I thought I'd dreamed it or… you called her!

"Dean, man, listen – "

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean yelled, one hand fisting in the front of Sam's shirt. "There were people in that hotel. People! And you sent a _demon_ to deal with it! She burned that place to the ground. Everyone could have died!"

"But they didn't, did they," Sam retorted, fighting to keep his voice, to keep his own anger at his older brother's judgmental high-handedness in check. "The only body they found was the meatsuit from the demon who killed Pamela, and he was already dead."

"Did you already know about this? Did you know she was going to do this?"

Sam said nothing, not because he didn't have an answer but because he wasn't certain what the right answer was. What would make Dean despise him more, thinking that Sam was in on it or thinking that Sam was once again playing Ruby's dim-witted dupe. He ground his teeth, jaw clenching in anger, and Dean drew his own conclusions. Dean's jaw set, his eyebrows drawing down, and he shook visibly. After a moment, he released his hold on Sam's shirt and stepped away, turning to stare at the distant entrance to the salvage yard.

"So, what, were you just counting on me never finding out?" he asked just when Sam feared that the silence was going to stretch on forever. "I guess you figured if I didn't know, it wasn't a problem?"

"What the hell was I supposed to do Dean?" Sam demanded, his own frayed temper finally ripping free. "It's not like you were going to take care of things. You were falling apart. There were demons in town. I had to get you _out_ of there. So, yeah, Ruby stepped up and covered our asses. You should be thanking her!"

"Covered your ass, you mean," Dean retorted hotly, still facing away. "Your little demon bitch would be just as happy if I were six feet under the ground again."

"That's not true and you know it," Sam insisted. He set the laptop on the trunk of the Impala and then walked around Dean so his brother would have to look at him again. "Ruby cares about me. She cares about us. She just wants to help."

Dean laughed, a short sharp sound with far too much bitterness in it for Sam's comfort. "Help?" he drawled. "The way she helped me with my demon deal? The way she lied to me, lied to _us_ about Lilith holding my contract? I went to Hell, Sam. I went to Hell for forty fucking years, and what she knew could have stopped it! Doesn't that matter to you?"

Sam froze, stumbling for an explanation that Dean would understand, would be able to accept. Meanwhile his gut churned acid. How could Dean ask that? He could he even think that? "Of course it matters," Sam said, his throat tightening up more with each word. "But… Ruby, she had reasons for not – "

Sam ground to a halt as Dean snatched up the laptop, then turned on his heel and marched back toward the house without saying a word. For a moment, Sam just gaped after him, then he _chased_ after him. "Dean? Dean! Damn it, Dean, don't walk away from me!" Sam grabbed his brother's arm, swinging him around and pulling him to a halt.

"Don't touch me!" Dean growled, yanking his arm away, the laptop falling from his hands, its housing cracking open as it landed on one of its corners on the gravel drive. "Just stay the hell away from me!" Dean shouted.

"What?" Sam whispered, his chest suddenly feeling tight at the devastation and fury he saw combined on his brother's pale face. Dean's skin stood out against his stubble like snow, and Sam half wondered if he was going into shock again. They just stared at each other in uncomfortable silence for a time. Sam broke first, as he so often did. "Dean, let me explain," he pleaded softly. Sam reached down and picked up the shattered laptop, stalling for time, for some semblance of balance. When he straightened and met his brother's gaze, Dean's eyes were calm and cold.

"There's nothing to explain, Sam. I get it. I do. I just wish I didn't." Dean turned and walked, and this time Sam didn't stop him. Dean stopped himself when he'd gone only a few feet, however. He looked back over his shoulder at Sam, his gaze vulnerable and uncertain. "I don't know who you are anymore," he whispered brokenly. "I just… I just never would have thought that four months could change so much."

Then he turned and walked more slowly into the house, shutting the door gently behind him. Sam stared after him, hurting. Dean was hurting too, was hurting bad. Sam could see that and it ate at him, but the guilt quickly gave way to anger. Who the hell did Dean think he was to judge Sam? What gave him the right to pass judgment on the choices Sam made when Dean was the one who'd played sous-chef to Alastair's head chef for ten years. Dean was the one who'd tortured – Sam froze, the rage at Dean leaving him as quickly as it had come. He felt sick, literally physically sickened by his own thoughts, and he just made it to the bushes by the front porch before his stomach let go.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21 – Fences to Mend

When the heaving had passed, Sam turned on the spigot beside Bobby's front porch and scrubbed his face and hands in the cold water. Then, running his damp hands absently through his hair, he wandered back over to the Impala. Why did crap like this keep happening? Why couldn't he have one day of peace? Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, Sam slid it open and hit speed dial number one. It rang and rang and rang, then went to voicemail. Ruby's voice – coma girl's voice, really – came on immediately. "Off saving the world. Leave a message and maybe I'll get back to you. Maybe." Sam ground his teeth. He hated that message. It made her sound like a bitchy teenager, not a being who'd lived for hundreds of years. "Call me as soon as you get this," he said, not bothering to identify himself. Who else would be calling Ruby anyway? Then, clenching his jaw, Sam cut the call and paced back and forth, his anger increasing with every step. Turning back to the gutted car, he recommenced wiping down the contents of the trunk, the growing pile of clean items not giving him the pleasure it had just a short while ago. When ten minutes had gone by, he pulled his cell back out and tried again. Still voicemail. "Call me, Ruby. Now," he said through gritted teeth. The third time his message consisted of a growling, "Where the hell are you?" that left him just as frustrated and even angrier than before. He'd managed to wipe down half the contents of the trunk – not counting the guns which would have to be disassembled and cleaned from the inside out – when his cell phone finally buzzed in his pocket. Yanking it free of his jeans, Sam hit the talk button and practically smashed the phone to his ear.

Ruby was already talking. "Sam, what's wrong? Has something happened?"

"Hell yes, something has happened! What were you thinking?" he demanded, his ire bubbling rapidly to a full boil.

"What? Sam, what are you talking about?"

"The fire. The fire in Greybull. You burned down that hotel?"  
"Oh, that."

"Yes, that. Ruby, what were you thinking? How could you burn down The Trailbreak? You might have killed someone."

"Sam, what gives?" Ruby asked, clearly exasperated. "You've never questioned how I've done things before."

"Of course I . . . wait, what do you mean, I've never questioned what you did before? Are you saying you've done _this_ before?"

"If you mean a fire, then yeah, I have. It the fastest and easiest way to destroy boat-loads of evidence. What did you think I'd do, pop on an apron and some gloves and go all June Cleaver on the place?"

"Jesus, Ruby!"

Ruby said nothing, but a strange hissing rumble came over line and it occurred to Sam abruptly that she was . . . that she was growling. For a moment, he thought Ruby was just angry with him, as he was with her, but then he realized the truth. Ruby was a demon, a demon who was reacting to the name of Jesus. He might as well have thrown holy water in her face. Sometimes – damn it – sometimes he completely forgot what she was. "I'm –" Sam broke off. He'd been on the verge of apologizing, because, demon or not, Ruby was an ally, maybe even a friend, but the very ludicrousness of it stopped him. How could he apologize to a demon, even a demon like her, for having the audacity to mention God? Sam was already furious with her over the fire. He wasn't about to say he was sorry for behaving like a human.

Neither of them said anything, neither of them willing to be the one to break down and break the silence. Neither willing to break – period. Ruby was in the wrong here, and Sam wasn't going to back down. Too many times in his life, too many times in the last four years, he had been the one to back down even when he knew he was right, even when he knew the other person was wrong. He'd done it with his father, with Dean, and now with Ruby. But no more. So Sam stood there and fumed, the sound of Ruby's offended breathing the only thing telling him that she hadn't hung up yet. He grit his teeth, pacing back and forth beside the Impala. He really didn't like standing in the open like this. If Dean saw him on the phone, he'd know instantly who Sam was talking to, and that would mean another fight. Not that he didn't have the right to talk to whomever he wanted, not that he needed his brother's permission to do anything. He wasn't a child, and Dean wasn't his father.

His father . . .

Sam rubbed his forehead, still holding the phone to his ear. He didn't even want to contemplate what John would think of his youngest son now. John had turned his back on Sam just for daring to want a normal life, for daring to go to college instead of sticking with hunting. It seemed strange to Sam now that his father had so desperately resisted his attempts to be normal. So ironic for John to fight that so hard when his greatest fear had been that Sam would go darkside. You'd have thought he'd have wanted Sam as far away from hunting and anything to do with monsters as possible. If John knew that Sam was working with a demon, knew that he was actively developing his psychic powers, knew that he was . . .

Acid churned in Sam's gut. He had no doubt, no uncertainty whatsoever, that John would kill his youngest son himself, just as he would kill any other so-called monster. Then . . . then John had died, and instead of talking to Sam about his fears, instead of trusting Sam with the truth, his father had laid that burden squarely on Dean's shoulders. _He said I might have to kill you, Sammy._ That moment when Dean had told him about John's last words to him was burned into his memory like a brand. How could his father have done that to Dean? How could his father have done that to him? Done it to them as brothers? It was beyond cruel to both of them. Worse, he'd probably expect Dean to actually – Sam turned as he heard footsteps on the porch behind him. It was Dean. He had his leather jacket on, his go bag slung over his shoulder and what looked like a key ring clutched in his hand. Sam could still hear Ruby breathing over the connection, but he hung up on her without a qualm.

"Dean," he called, shoving the cell phone into his pocket and hurrying to catch up with his brother. "Dean, where are you going?"

"For a drive," Dean answered without a pause, not breaking his stride or turning to look at Sam. "I need to clear my head."

"A drive? In what? The Impala's not ready. If you'll just give me an hour, I'll have her all cleaned up and then we can – "

Dean stopped, and for a moment he just stood there, his head down, shoulders and back stiff, his eyes fixed firmly on the gravel at his feet. When he looked up, the gaze he turned on Sam was distant. "We? There is no _we _here, Sam. There's just _me_, going for a drive. Alone. "

Sam gulped. "But the car…" He trailed off as Dean glanced over his shoulder, looking past Sam to the evidence of the on-going clean up. Operation Litter Extraction. How could so much have gone so wrong so fast?

The stiff set of his brother's shoulders relaxed somewhat, and when he spoke, his voice sounded less hostile, though bone tired. "Bobby has plenty of spare cars, Sam. He won't mind me taking the Malibu for a couple days."

Sam's eyes widened and he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. "A couple of days? Dean, are you leaving?"

"I told you, I need to clear my head." He was still looking over Sam's shoulder, not meeting his eyes.

"You need a few days to do that? Come on, Dean," Sam said cajolingly. "You're head's not _that_ big." The humor rang false, beyond strained, but at least it got his brother to actually look at him.

"Sam…"

"Dean, you're pissed at me. I get it," Sam said in a rush, "but don't just take off. Don't. Please. Especially not in that old Malibu. It's a piece of crap, and you know it. You wouldn't get fifty miles."

Dean sighed. "It's not like I'm _leaving_ leaving. I just need some space, some time to think."

Sam couldn't help a small snort at the irony. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?"

"Yeah, well, you've changed." His brother was looking away again, staring at the Impala, his expression largely unreadable except for the sulky angle of his jaw

"Everything changes, Dean." Sam said. "That's life." But Sam couldn't help thinking that it wasn't life that had changed them both. It was death. Sam's death, Dean's death and Hell: the trifecta of the damned. Taking a deep breath, he reached out a hand and tentatively took hold of the go-bag that had begun to slip from Dean's shoulder and down his arm. "Look, Alastair is still out there. Lilith is still out there. Both of them are bound to be mad as hell that you got away." Sam saw Dean flinch, wincing at the very mention of Alastair's name, and he pressed his advantage. He'd use Dean's fear if he had to. He'd use anything to keep him safe. "It's not a good idea for you to go off on your own right now. I'm not saying you can't take care of yourself." Dean eyed him dubiously. "I'm not," Sam insisted. "It's just that we need to stick together. What happened in Greybull, that was way too close. Pamela's dead and that could have been either one of us. So, please. Be as pissed at me as you want, but don't go."

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head, but not in disagreement. "Fine. Whatever, dude." Sam heaved a sigh of relief as Dean turned and walked back to the house. The last thing, the absolute last thing he needed right now was his practically crippled brother wandering around the countryside getting into trouble without Sam there to get him out of it again. Sam followed after him and dropped the go-bag just inside the front door. Then, heading back to finish his work on the Impala, he pulled his phone out. He had some fences to mend with Ruby.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22 – Why God Invented Google

Fight or flight: ten-thousand-year-old instincts genetically programmed into every human. Those instincts had always served Dean well, helped keep him alive and ready to face all comers. Now, Dean sat at Bobby's kitchen table feeling torn in two. Half of him wanted to get in the Impala or any other damn car he could find and drive until he fell off the edge of the world. The other half wanted to crawl into a nice warm bed, hide his head under the covers and not come out until Judgment Day – or when the U.S. government actually caught Osama bin Laden, whichever came first. Unfortunately, neither of those were real viable choices. Sam and his puppy dog eyes had nixed escape via motor vehicle, and crawling into bed would just leave Sam more convinced than ever that his big brother was washed up, used up and more pathetic than a grown man wearing Smurfette underwear. So flight in any form was pretty much not an option. As for fight… he just didn't seem to have any left. He tried to dredge some up, tried to feel once again the anger that the siren had called forth in him, tried to fan the flames of rage until that burning fury would make him capable of doing something… anything. But nothing came. He felt tired, empty. His will to fight was simply gone. There'd been times in the past when he was too tired to fight, too sick, too hurt, but capable of fighting or not, he'd always had the will to keep going. That had never failed him. The simple _will_ to fight had never before left him. Now that will was gone like it had never been, and Dean didn't know what to do with that.

He knew he should act. He should fight back somehow against the vice-like hold that demon slut had on his brother, but it all seemed so pointless. How could he save Sam when Sam didn't want to be saved? How could help his brother at all when his brother was the one slitting his own throat? The irony was not lost on Dean. Sam had complained all that long year of Dean's demon deal because Dean wouldn't lift a finger to save himself. Now it was Sam who would do nothing to help himself. The kid was on a fast train to damnation, and instead of trying to jump the tracks, he was stoking the engine to pick up more speed. God.

A month ago, Dean would have said screw what Sam wanted and gone out looking for Ruby. If there was ever a demon who had the gank coming, it was that bitch. Hell, even a week ago, he'd have been gunning for her. But now… now what good would it do? Even if he killed Ruby, even if he sent that little whore on to meet her maker, Sam would still be tainted by his time with her. He'd still have his new and improved psychic mojo. He'd still be hell-bent on killing Lilith no matter the consequences, no matter what he turned himself into. He'd still look at Dean and see someone who wasn't brave enough to be his big brother anymore. He'd look at Dean and see something lacking, something missing, something irrevocably lost in Hell, and Dean would never truly be able to trust him again. Alastair had been right, all Dad's fears _were_ coming to pass. Sam was doing it. He was slowly going darkside, and Dean could do nothing to stop it. In fact, everything he did do just seemed to accelerate the process. So now he sat and did nothing.

The angels must be out of their collective celestial minds to think that Dean could somehow stop Lilith, that he could prevent the breaking of the seals. He couldn't even get through one night without waking up with a scream lodged in his throat and his sheets soaked with sweat. He couldn't get through one day without turning to the bottle to the dull the sharp edges of his memories. That alcohol-induced numbness was the only comfort he seemed to be able to find, the only real rest. He was crumbling, and he had no rock to lean on, no wall to hold him up. Dad was gone. Sam was distant. Bobby… Dean depended on Bobby too much as it was. The older hunter was a good friend, practically like a second father to him, but he had to be sick half-to-death of cleaning up after Winchester messes. So where did that leave Dean? What did it leave him with?

Alastair.

Dean's hand trembled as he lifted the bottle of whiskey his mouth and drank. Alastair. The demon had made him an offer, an offer that was looking more and more like his only hope for saving Sammy. The very thought of it though… the thought of going back to Hell, of going back to his _master_. Dean took a hefty swallow, downing a couple more fingers of Dutch courage before heading upstairs, taking the bottle with him. He might not know quite what to do about Sam and Ruby right now, but Alastair had given his prize pupil a homework assignment, and it time that Dean hit the books. Well, not the books, precisely. He wouldn't know where to begin looking for information on Alastair's real name – if it was his real name – in a book, but that was why God had invented Google. Actually, no doubt some guy in Silicon Valley had invented Google, and no doubt Sam would know his name. Why couldn't the kid have just stayed a geek? Why'd he have to go all Darth Vader?

Trying hard not to think about all the reasons why this was probably a bad idea, Dean snagged Sam's laptop from his bag and then sat down on the end of their shared bed. He already had enough explaining to do about the laptop of Bobby's that he'd broken. Sam could fucking well just cope with Dean using his, not that he planned on mentioning any of this to his brother, no matter what choice he ultimately made. With a frown, Dean saw that the kid had changed the system password again, probably hoping to prevent his brother from using his computer to look at porn. It was so naive it was almost cute. How could Sam be that goofy and ride the edge of evil at the same time? How? Running through the most likely options, it took Dean less than five minutes to crack Sam's new password. It seemed to take longer, far longer, to actually bring himself to begin the search, his fingers reluctant even to type the letters of the word Alastair had whispered in his ear, the demon's supposed true name.

Azbugah.

He hit search and then quickly scanned the results, looking for a likely prospect. He got a ton of hits about some guy named John Zorn, a Jazz musician who'd apparently released an entire album of compositions with the names of angels as their titles. What the fuck, man? Shaking his head, Dean kept looking. What did that have to do with demons? Answer, zilch. There were results in Russian, results in German, results in Spanish. There was even something that he thought might be Cezch. Nothing remotely helpful until, suddenly, there it was. Azbugah. It was a name all right, and it _was_ the name of an angel, but that made absolutely no freakin' sense. Why would Alastair give Dean the name of an angel? Did he honestly expect Dean to fall for such a ridiculous trick? Baffled, he read on, skimming at first, stopping and reading with more concentration as the information slowly sank in. Azbugah. The name meant "throne of judgment" according to one website. According to another, Azbugah was one of the, "eight great throne angels," whose duty it was to identify the souls of righteous men when they died. What did that mean? What was a righteous man, exactly? Was it a saint or just any old schmo who made the cut and earned a season-pass for the Holy Gates?

Dean kept reading, wishing he could get Sam to help him with the research, something the kid had always been better at than he was. Better yet, he wished he could ask Bobby for help, but Bobby was off meeting with Pamela's significant other, and if the older hunter got so much as a whiff of the plan that Dean was considering… Dean could practically feet the shotgun pellets biting into his hide already. Bobby still hadn't forgiven him for selling his soul the first time. He'd have an apoplexy if he even suspected that Dean would consider doing it again. So Dean went on alone, stopping every half hour or so to look out the window and make sure than Sam was still absorbed in the time-consuming task of cleaning up the Impala.

As Dean had already known from their previous research into Castiel, the information to be found online about angels was unreliable. Much of it was contradictory and most of it was ludicrous. But at the moment, the internet was all he had to work with, so Dean would have to take what he found with a grain of salt and double-check his facts against Bobby's occult library later. In the end, what information he was able to gather boiled down to this: Azbugah was an angel, specifically a Seriph. In Heaven, the Seraphim were the elite, the very top of the angel hierarchy. They never came to Earth, never even left God's throne room and never, ever took on a human form. The Seraphim were described as giant, living golden flames with six ruby-red wings that dazzled the beholder. They were sometimes called the fiery hosts of Heaven, but they were most commonly known as The Burning Ones. The internet listed literally thousand of names for angels in general, but very, very few individual names for the Seraphim. Azbugah was one of the only Seraphim whose name was known for certain, and he was the _only_ Seriph ever known to have fallen from grace.

Cold shivers ran from the base of Dean's neck down his spine in waves. Fallen from grace. Azbugah fell. He followed Lucifer when the archangel rebelled against Heaven and he fell. Holy shit, Dean thought numbly. Holy fucking shit. Could Alastair really be a fallen angel? Was Hell's chief torturer one of The Burning Ones? Dean's stomach clenched. The idea was ridiculous, and yet it would explain so much. Alastair was the most powerful demon that Dean had ever encountered, the most powerful demon he'd ever even heard of except for Lilith. So, what if he wasn't really a demon at all? The knife hadn't killed him. Castiel hadn't been able to exorcize him. In a one-on-one fight, Alastair could kick serious angel butt, something that no other demon seemed to be capable of pulling off. So maybe, just maybe, he wasn't really a demon.

No. It was crazy. Without a body, all demons looked like swirling clouds of black smoke, and Sam had seen Alastair smoke out of his meatsuit after he'd knocked Dean out in the cemetery in Greybull. Unless Sam was lying about that the way he lied about so many things lately. No. No. There was no good reason for Sam to lie about that, so assume he was telling the truth. That meant he had seen Alastair sans meatsuit, and he'd looked just like any other demon. Surely, angels didn't smoke. Did they? Dean couldn't envision Cas as some roiling, inky cloud shoving himself down some poor guy's throat. Uriel… now that was a different story. That dude was as much of a dick as any demon Dean had ever met. He had certainly been happy enough to pummel Dean when given the chance, and he'd had no qualms at all about destroying an entire town full of innocent people in order to save one solitary seal.

Dean reached for the whiskey, his fingers shaking harder than ever, and took another long swallow. Just when it seemed like the world couldn't get any crazier, that life couldn't get any worse, the universe threw something like this at him. Mom always said angels were watching over me, he thought bitterly, taking another long pull on the bottle. Turns out she was right. It's just that the one who wants to make it a full-time job is working for the wrong side. Dean's stomached churned despite the soothing presence of the whiskey as memories of Hell assaulted him. Alastair with his scaly golden skin and his blood red talons. Alastair shimmering in Hell's harsh light as if he were made of jewels. The torturer laughing as one rack-bound soul prayed for deliverance, prayed for an angel to come and rescue her. An angel. Lucifer was an angel. Ruby said that all demons were once human, but what if she was wrong? What if some demons used to be… more?

Dropping the now empty bottle to the floor, Dean put his head in his hands. If Alastair was an angel, one of the most powerful angels that had ever existed, then he probably could do exactly what he'd promised Dean he would. If Alastair was an angel, then he had the power to fix Sammy, to really and truly fix him, and that meant that Dean had to take his offer seriously. Hell. Forever. Sam would hate him, not for selling his soul but for taking away Sam's newfound powers. The _kid_ would never forgive Dean for that. Never. But would that matter? Wouldn't Sammy's hatred be a small price to pay for saving Sam's soul? So what if he damned his own in the process; he'd done it before and nothing had really changed since then. He still felt the same. He'd still die for Sam in a heartbeat, still do anything to keep his baby brother safe. So, the real question was not whether or not Dean was willing to go back to Hell. The question was whether or not Alastair was telling the truth. Dean had never known the demon to lie, ironically enough, but for this… for this Dean had to be 150 percent certain. There could be no doubt that Alastair really was an angel, that he really had the power to fix Sam and protect him from Lilith's wrath. If Dean's former mentor could do those things… if the demon could deliver…

"What are you doing, Dean?" Dean jumped, nearly falling off the bed as a gravelly voice spoke from just behind him.

_*Author's note: The cliffhanger is not my fault. My beta reader, Eideann, insisted. She doesn't wish to suffer alone. Another post to follow in a day or two. Let me know what you think of this one._


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23 – Blah, Blah, Blah, and Something Else in Latin

(*Hum the title to the tune of "Oh Christmas Tree.")

"What are you doing, Dean?" Dean jumped, nearly falling off the bed as a gravelly voice spoke from just behind him.

Dean whirled, slamming the laptop shut even as he stood to face the angel who had appeared on the other side of the bed. "Crap, Cas! Give a guy some warning, would you? I'm not going to do the cause much good if I drop dead of a heart attack. I swear I'm going to put a bell on you one of these days."

"I know of no reason why I would wish to wear a bell," the angel said with a small frown. "What are you doing?"

"Why?" Dean demanded, alarmed by him showing up now, of all moments. "I mean, what are you doing here?"

The angel came around the edge of the bed, not stopping until he was standing very close to him, well into Dean's personal space and definitely past the edge of his comfort zone. "I came to check on you. I was concerned."

"Concerned?" Dean asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "A few months ago you threatened to send my ass back to Hell, not for the first time either. I don't hear so much as peep out of you for weeks on end, and now you're concerned?" His voice was practically dripping sarcasm by the end, but the angel didn't seem to notice. If anything, his worried frown grew more intense.

"I am. Your encounter with Alastair cannot have been easy for you."

"I… I'm fine," Dean mumbled, taken aback by the unexpected sincerity in Cas' voice, not to mention the searching look the angel had fixed him with.

Cas tilted his head in that strange bird-like way he had and took a step closer, his gaze boring into Dean, as if trying to see beneath his skin. "You are not fine. The demon has weakened you. You are shaking."

Looking down the length of his own body, Dean saw that it was true. Scowling, he took a step back. "Dude, you have a lot to learn about personal space," he snapped. "Not to mention social skills."

"What is personal space?" he asked quizzically.

"It's… uh…. I don't freakin' know. If you want a lecture, go ask Sam."

"Perhaps I will later." Cas closed the gap between them, raising a hand toward Dean's face.

"Hey! Whoa," Dean ordered. "Remember that thing I just said about personal space? Well, you're violating it right now."

The angel lowered his arm but did not step away. "It is necessary for me to touch you if I am to heal the damage that Alastair did." Cas' nostrils flared and he breathed in deeply, his nose wrinkling slightly as if he smelled something bad. Dean shifted uncomfortably, wondering if angels cared about things like B.O. "The sense of his presence on you is stronger than I would have expected. He may have done more harm than you or I realized."

"I was astral, Cas. He couldn't even really touch me," Dean rolled his eyes even as he wondered in a panic whether the angel could somehow be picking up on Alastair's little nighttime dream visit. "Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"He touched a projection of your soul, Dean, and his touch is corrosive. Your body is like armor. It protects your soul. In astral form, that protection is greatly diminished. That's why walking the astral plane is so dangerous. When Alastair held you in that form, his simple touch was far worse than any physical harm he could induce."

"Well, thanks for the lecture, Bill Nye the Science Guy, but I feel just fine.

"You do not feel weakened?"

Dean clenched his jaw. "I. Am. Not. Weak." He ground the words out, clipping each one off sharply.

"Then why are you still shaking?" Lacking an answer, Dean ground his teeth, feeling his clenched fists trembling against his denim-clad thighs. He took a deep breath, but before he could say anything, Cas' fingers were on his forehead. He didn't black out this time though, or find himself beamed to another state or even blipped back in time. Instead, Dean felt a steady heat spread slowly down through his body, suffusing him with warmth everywhere it passed. He closed his eyes, startled but not disliking the feeling. It was like every massage he'd ever had, every soak in a hot bath, every dose of Morphine he'd ever taken, all rolled into one amazing sensation. It was, in a word, awesome. When the angel was done, he lowered his arm and drew back, still watching Dean intently.

Dean started to speak and discovered that his throat was bone dry… and the damn whiskey bottle was empty. He cleared his throat, coughed self-consciously. He half-turned, ready to dig in his bag for one of the flasks of holy water just to quench his third, but he was suddenly dizzy and swayed on his feet. He more than half-expected the angel to grab him as Sam would have, but Cas just watched, saying nothing as Dean backed up to the edge of the bed and sat down. He felt unsteady but not unwell. That warm feeling inside him was still there, holding all that shakiness together, keeping him still and in one non-quivering piece. It felt, in fact, kind of like a giant hug – not that anything, _anything_ would ever get Dean to admit that out loud. "What'd you do?"

"I healed you," the angel said simply.

"You healed my soul?" he clarified, still finding it hard to believe that such a thing was even possible.

"Yes."

Dean could believe it. Despite how ridiculous it sounded, despite the undeniably monumental weirdness of having a trench-coat clad angel in his bedroom playing doctor with his soul, Dean could believe it. He felt better, calmer. He was more focused than he had been since his and Sam's encounter with the siren, maybe even since the first time he saw Alastair again after Hell, standing in that church attic with Ruby and Sam, angel-radio girl hiding in the closet. To be this centered again… it felt like a million bucks. More, it made the entire idea of saying yes to Alastair seem like a bad dream, like some kind of nightmare that he'd abruptly woken from to find the world not as dark as he'd supposed. The relief was amazing, almost disabling in its power.

While Dean sat thinking, Castiel had turned and walked over to the window. From the angle of his head, he was watching Sam working on the car. "Listen man," Dean said, after watching the angel in silence for a time, "I'd rather you asked before you did stuff like that, but thanks. Really. I mean it."

Castiel turned his head just far enough to see Dean from the corner of his eye. "You're welcome," he said with a nod.

Dean got up and joined him at the window. Sam was packing everything back in the trunk, carefully placing each item in its assigned spot. Mr. Anal-Retentive down there would probably prefer it if they did the trunk of the Impala up like Dad had done the cargo area on his GMC Sierra, securing everything in specially cut foam padding. That was just a little too inflexible for Dean, though, and it was his damn car so he got his way and too bad for little brother. Frankly, Dean was a little surprised that Sam hadn't made the change while Dean was in Hell. The car had belonged entirely to him then, after all.

"You know that your brother is still using his powers."

Dean flinched. "Yeah, I know," he said, staring down at Sam. "It was kind of hard to miss the last few months, no matter how blind Sam apparently thinks I am." He could feel Castiel looking at him, contemplating him in that earnest way he had. "What?"

"You have to stop him, Dean. What he is doing is dangerous for everyone, but especially for him. It cannot be allowed to continue."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean snapped.

"Then why have you not stopped it? Why is Sam still using his psychic powers?"

Dean spun around and marched back over to the bed, staring down at the laptop that still lay there. "You think I haven't tried?" he said, thinking about Alastair's offer. "It's not like I can just push a button and make him stop. He's got a mind of his own, and he doesn't listen to me anymore."

"You're wrong, Dean. You're the only one that Sam _will_ listen to. You have to reach him. You have to make him stop."

"Yeah, about that," he said, turning to look back at the angel silhouetted against the light coming in the window. "I thought you said that you guys would stop him if I didn't."

"Dean, surely you do not wish us to stop Sam. If Heaven commands it, we will put an end to this, but you would not like our methods."

"You mean you'd put an end to him? You'd kill him?"

Castiel said nothing, merely gazing back at Dean solemnly.

"But you haven't killed him. You haven't smote… smited… smitten… damn it! You haven't touched a hair on his head. So what was that? Was it just another empty threat? Like threatening to send me back to Hell?"

"You're angry?" Castiel said, sounding surprised.

"You're damn right I'm angry," Dean growled. "You said you'd ship my ass back to Hell if I didn't turn Anna over to you."

"And yet you did not give in," Cas said, sounding more perplexed than before. "I still don't understand why, knowing what you know, remembering what you do, that you would be willing return to Hell for her. She was a stranger to you."

"She was an innocent human being and you were going to kill her!"  
"Anna was not really human, and she was never an innocent. Her crimes – "

"And when that didn't work, you said you'd kill Sam!"

"I never – "

"No, you had Uriel do it for you," Dean said accusingly, his hands clenching instinctively into fists, though he had a feeling that punching an angel would probably get him about as far as a dollar's worth of gas. "You sent your stuck-up, bigoted little ass-wipe to do your dirty work for you because you didn't have the guts to tell me to my face what you were going to do!"

"No. Dean, you must listen to – "

"I handed her over to you guys because of that threat. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? Do you? She trusted me and I betrayed her!"

"It wasn't me!"

"And now she won't even – what'd you say?"

"It wasn't me. I never made that threat, either of those threats. I simply came to retrieve Anna once you told Uriel her location. I knew… I _knew_ that you would be up to something – _you always are_ – and I had to be there to make certain that you did not get yourself or Sam killed."

"Oh, that's rich. I seem to remember being the one who saved your ungrateful neck when Alastair was… " Dean trailed off, suddenly remembering that the angel he was yelling at was the same angel who'd saved him from Alastair less than two days ago, the same angel who'd gotten his ass kicked after placing himself bodily between Dean and the master torturer. Crap. "Are you okay?" he demanded.

Castiel's eyebrows rose, but the angel fixed him with what was otherwise a very bland look. "I am fine."

"What Alastair did to you, that spell thing, it didn't hurt you, did it?"

"The pain was transitory. I am fine."

"Oh," Dean said, dropping his eyes to his clasped hands and plopping back down on the bed, elbows on his knees. Now he felt like a putz. A healthier, slightly less maudlin, but significantly more embarrassed putz. Terrific.

"Dean, we must discuss Sam."

"I know, but I honestly don't know what else I can do."

Castiel sighed. "Fortis cadere, cedere non potest. You must keep trying."

Dean's head whipped up. "Oh, now, don't you start!"

"Start what?" the angel asked, visibly taken aback by the abrupt force of Dean's protest.

"That Latin crap. It's bad enough when Alastair pulls that shit. I don't need it from you too. _Auribus teneo lup-_something or other,blah, blah, blah. Give me a break."

Castiel suddenly appeared directly in front of Dean, practically standing between the hunter's legs, he was so close. "Dean, when I arrived you were running from Alastair. I did not realize that the demon had spoken with you for any length of time. What did he say?"

"What difference does it make?"

"It could be important," the angel insisted urgently.

For one blinding moment, Dean had the urge to spill his guts and tell Cas everything, to lay the offer out on the table for him and see what he said. He wanted someone to tell him the whole thing was crazy, to tell him that he didn't belong back in Hell. But something held him back. If he could only be certain that he could trust Cas, that Cas was giving him the straight story about the whole mess with Anna and Sam and Uriel. "Nothing," he finally mumbled. "He didn't say anything."

"You're not being honest with me."

"How could you possibly – " Dean began, infuriated that the angel seemed to be able to read him so easily when Sam could be so completely oblivious to what he was thinking and feeling. "I barely even know you," he groused. "I mean, it's not like we ever really talk or… "

"You wish to talk more?" Castiel replied slowly, as if considering precisely what those words might mean. "You want to 'get to know' each other better?"

"Yes. No. I don't know!"

"I do not understand," the angel said, his eyebrows climbing again.

"Neither do I," Dean agreed. Then, apprehensively, he asked, "Just… what happened to Alastair?"

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean. He is being held in a secure location for questioning. He won't trouble you again."

That's what you think, Dean thought wryly. A secure location. So, if he did want to take Alastair up on his offer, first he'd have to find the demon, and then he'd have to figure out how to get the torturer away from a bunch of angel guards. And if he somehow could pull it off, busting the demon out could mean fighting the angels, and not just dicks like Uriel, either. He could wind up fighting Cas. Even if he could bring himself to do that, Dean didn't see how he could possibly win.

Maybe he wouldn't have to fight them, though. Maybe the angels would actually jump at the chance to get rid of not just Sam's powers and the threat of Lilith breaking the seals, but Dean as well. Hell, Uriel would probably be orgasmic at the very notion. The fact that Dean would be taking up permanent residency in Hell, that would just be a bonus as far as that dick was concerned. But Cas… Dean had a sneaking suspicion that Cas wouldn't go for the deal. In that encounter in the alley, Cas had seemed very worried about him, even protective. Now the angel was acting like he truly cared what happened to Dean. And that crack he'd made in Greybull, about how Dean was always doing the exact opposite of what he asked, that was the kind of smart-ass annoyed remark that only a friend would make. No threats, no lectures, just exasperated bitching thinly masking worry and genuine… affection? No, that was crazy. He just one more hairless ape to the angels, even to Cas. It's not like any of them would give a crap about him if they didn't need him to help stop Lilith and ride herd on Sam and his freaky demon mojo. Make friends with an angel? It was impossible.

"Dean? Dean!"

"Huh?" Dean said, realizing abruptly that he'd zoned out and been quiet for a little too long. "Sorry, I'm kind of tired. What'd you say?"

"I asked if you were certain that you were all right. You should be better now, but you still seem – "

"I'm fine. Like I said, I'm just tired, so unless there's another urgent mission you need to send me on before Pamela's body is even cold, I think you should go."

"Pamela's body is currently being kept at a temperature of twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit. I do not understand what you mean."

"Out, Cas!" Dean yelled, falling backward onto the bed and covering his face with his hands. "I mean get out! Go away and let me get some rest." There was a sound of wings, and when Dean uncovered his eyes, the angel was gone. Well, crap.

*Author's note: For anyone who is interested, Azbugah really is the name of an angel charged with identifying Righteous Men. You can expect another update in a couple of days, I hope. I just need to finish a little work on "Broken Dreams" and "Too Dark to See" first. Take care and please review!


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24 – A Stern Talking To

Sam had just closed the trunk of the Impala and was gathering up the cleaning supplies he'd used on the car when Bobby's Chevelle pulled into the yard followed closely by a battered old Ford F-250. He straightened away from the buckets and cleansers as the truck pulled to a halt and the driver's door swung open. Mike Stern. Sam had never seen the other hunter before, but Bobby had been on his way to meet the guy in town earlier that morning and there was no one else it could reasonably be. Stern stepped one booted foot out of the truck, then the other and still had to contort slightly to get out without banging his head on the doorframe. Free of the vehicle, he straightened… and just kept straightening.

Sam's eyes widened and he felt his jaw drop open of its own accord. Pamela's former flame was easily as tall as Sam in his stocking-feet alone. In the scuffed cowboy boots and faded Stetson he currently wore, Stern was considerably taller than him and far, far broader. Clearly, Pamela had liked them big. Massive, actually. Sam was not short on muscle, but this guy made him look and feel like a 90-pound weakling. Worse, with his size and his aggressively rugged clothing, Stern made Sam feel like the scrawny little runt he'd been for most of his God-awful childhood. Snapping his jaw shut, he firmly stamped down on that reaction. He wasn't that kid anymore, and size had absolutely nothing to do with power. Not the kind of power that he could control now, he thought smugly. Then he repressed that reaction as well. Stern was a fellow hunter and the friend of a friend… a friend that they'd all just lost. There was no reason for Sam to act like an ass just because the guy was bigger than him and looked like he ate geeks for breakfast. He could practically hear Dean telling him to "get a grip, Sammy." Besides, Dean was in the house somewhere sulking, so that left Sam to act as the Winchester welcoming committee.

He stepped forward as Bobby walked over with Stern at his elbow. In one of his college courses on women's history, Sam had read that Mother Teresa believed peace always began with a smile. So, giving it his best, Sam smiled and extended a hand. "Hi," he said. "You must be Pamela's friend, Mike. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances." Stern gave a small, tight-lipped nod, but he did not meet Sam's eyes and didn't offer a hand in return. Sam dropped his own awkwardly. Okay, this was clearly going to be just loads of fun.

"Where's the other one? Dean?" Stern demanded. "This one doesn't look enough like John to be him." Bobby's gaze flicked from Stern to Sam, and he eyed the younger man meaningfully. The warning in the older hunter's gaze wasn't hard to read, not that Sam really needed it. Stern was so tense he looked coiled, ready to strike, and Sam realized that Bobby was more than half expecting him to do exactly that. At the mention of Dean, the tension increased palpably.

"He's inside somewhere," Sam said hurriedly. Dean had been through enough already. He so didn't need to deal with this, too. Taking a step to the side, so that Stern would have no choice but to look at him, Sam opened his hands in the traditional gesture of peace and entreaty. "Mr. Stern, please let me tell you how sorry I am, how sorry we both are about what happened to Pamela. She was a good friend and…" If anything, Stern seemed to grow more tense as he spoke and Sam trailed off, uncertain what more he could say.

Stern gave Sam a quelling glare then turned back to Bobby. "Where is she?"

"I've got her wrapped up in my freezer," Bobby said, gesturing in the direction of the walk-in unit. "What with the storm last night, and not wanting to do anything definite until I spoke with you, it seemed best."

"I want to see her."

"Of course," Bobby agreed. "Come on." They took off around the house, Bobby hustling to keep up with the younger hunter's long stride and rapid gait.

Sam blanched, thinking about the muddy, bloody filth that had coated the blankets and the body alike. What with the rain, the litter and the gut wound, Pamela wasn't likely to be a pretty sight to see, especially not for someone who had supposedly loved her.

"Mr. Stern?" Sam said, hurrying after them. "Mike? Mike wait!" Sam latched onto Stern's arm as he caught up with them. "Wait. You might not want to see her like this. We haven't had a chance to clean her up yet, and – "

Stern jerked his arm out of Sam's grip, wheeling on him, fists clenched, jaw set and disgust in his dark eyes. Sam took a step back, startled by the sudden surge of fury coming from the other man.

"Mike!" Bobby snapped, as Stern took a single aborted step toward Sam. "Mike, knock it off! The kid means well."

"Kid?" he spat, his tone incredulous. "You're blind, Bobby. Completely blind where the Winchesters are concerned." Then he turned on his heel and marched over to the freezer door, waiting impatiently for Bobby to open it. Bobby gestured with urgent impatience for Sam to back away and back _off._ Then he disappeared into the icy walk-in with the larger man.

Sam backed away and waited, leaning up against the side of the house. What did Stern mean when he said that Bobby was "blind" about the Winchesters? The man was clearly hurting, clearly torn up about Pamela, but who the hell did he think he was to judge them, to judge Sam? And the way he'd looked when he'd asked where Dean was, the powerful emotion that he'd been holding in check… Sam had heard rumors that some of the other hunters out there didn't trust Dean since his brother's return from Hell. There were wild stories circulating through the loosely-knit hunter community. Bobby wouldn't talk about it, but people like Rufus were less circumspect, and Ruby had her own sources of information, which made them Sam's sources too. He could still recall the murderous rage that had swept through him the first time he heard what their fellow hunters were saying about his brother. The most insulting stories claimed that Dean had made the whole thing up, that he'd never died at all, let alone gone to Hell. Some versions had Sam selling his soul to bring Dean back to life. Sam found those bleakly funny. The Lord knew he'd tried, but no one had been buying. The most vile tales held that Dean was little better than a demon now himself, that he was in bed with the very monsters he'd dedicated his life to destroying. Not one story involved angels. Not one hunter had gotten up the nerve to actually ask them what had happened, and, ironically enough, no one seemed to have cottoned onto the simple and obvious truth. Dean was still Dean. He was still a hunter, still a hero. He was just… damaged.

The only question now was what camp Stern fell into. If he was one of those who thought Dean had gone darkside, then Sam might just have a private little chat with him. Bigger didn't mean better, and while Stern was older than Sam, Sam had been hunting longer. He'd grown up hunting, for God's sake. He had no doubt in his mind that, if it came to it, he could take Stern. On the other hand, if Stern was just one of the typical yahoo' who didn't have the foggiest clue what was going on and who was basing his image of them on John Winchester's reputation as a single-minded supernatural steamroller – innocent bystanders run for cover – then maybe he could be reasoned with.

Or maybe he was just an angry man grieving for the woman he'd loved, a man who'd once again lost someone to supernatural violence and needed to blow off some steam. It wasn't like Sam couldn't relate. Sometimes, you just needed someone to hate, whether they were to blame for your loss or not. Fine. So be it, as long as he took his angst out on Sam and left Dean in peace.

A small voice in the back of Sam's head said, "Don't you mean in pieces? Isn't that how you left him?" Sam shook himself, ruthlessly telling the voice that sounded strangely like Missouri Mosely to shut the fuck up. Dean was fine. Dean would _be_ fine once he adjusted to the way things were now. He just had to get used to the idea that Sam wasn't some little kid who needed his big brother to save him anymore. He needed to accept the fact that Sam was the one doing the saving now. "But you didn't save Pamela," the voice insisted, and Sam swallowed hard against the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

"If you think you have good intentions, think again," Pamela had said. Sam still wasn't sure what she'd really meant by that. Of course he had good intentions. He wanted to help people, wanted to save everyone, protect everyone, and most especially Dean. Why… _how_ could she have doubted that even for a moment? She was a psychic. She could read his thoughts. She had to know what he really wanted, didn't she? She had to know that he only meant the best for everyone. Didn't she? Sam closed his eyes, his thoughts whirling in circles. Why couldn't things be simple? Why couldn't he have had that quiet ordinary life he'd longest for as a kid? If he could go back and change things, if he could make it so Azazel never existed, so that he still had Jessica, so that Dean didn't have to hunt, so they could both have normal, quiet, _safe _lives...

But that was a dream. Worse, it was a dream that he couldn't even visualize anymore. Jessica's face had grown fizzy in his memory. His plans to become a lawyer, to return to school once the threats had been eliminated, it was all so unreal to him now. He was a hunter. A stronger, more powerful hunter than Dean, than his mother, even than his father. He had a responsibility to use that power to protect people, and he had a God-given second chance to use that same power to protect Dean, and nothing was going to stop him. Not even Dean.

Sam straightened away from the wall as Bobby and Stern emerged from the freezer. Stern had his hat off, held in his hands. He worried at the brim, staring down at it as Bobby locked the door behind them. When he looked up, Sam could see that there were unshed tears glittering in the other man's eyes, and Sam instantly felt like a grade A jerk.

"I am so very sorry," Sam blurted, rushing forward. "I know it's like to – "

Despite the fact that he'd been hunting all his life, Sam was totally unprepared for the blow that knocked him onto his rear end on the muddy gravel.

"Sorry? You'd sorry! She's lying in there, bloody and broken, and you haven't had time to clean her up, but I see you've had time to work on that fucking car!"

Sam stared up at Stern, wide-eyed and appalled. "What? No. It's not like – " But it was kind of like that, wasn't it? He had been cleaning the car when Stern arrived. He hadn't been thinking about Pamela at all, just himself and Dean and… guilt swamped him. "Mike, I don't… I'm so…" Sam scrambled to his feet even as he scrambled for the right words to say, the words that would make Stern understand that no disrespect had been intended, that Sam had just been dealing with his own grief and confusion in his own way. Before he could say anything else, Stern took another wild swing at him, shrugging Bobby restraining arms off as if they were cobwebs.

"I don't want to fight you," Sam insisted, dodging as he backed hastily away.

"I don't give a half a damn what you want!" Stern growled. Sam clenched his jaw, and planted his feet, ready to fight if he had to, but then he caught sight of the pleading look in Bobby's eyes. With a sigh, Sam shook his head and turned to walk away.

There was a sound of crunching gravel, and Bobby yelled, "Mike, no!" Sam half-turned back to face Stern and the blow he knew had to be coming, but guilt and grief combined to slow his reflexes and immobilize his defenses. He could only brace himself as Stern's fist came toward him, but the blow never connected with its intended target. Sam flinched and closed his eyes instinctively as he heard the sound of flesh colliding with flesh, but when he opened his eyes he saw his brother standing between him and Stern, the larger man's fist resting against the open palm of Dean's hand.

"What in the Hell do you think you're doing?" Dean demanded, stepping directly into Stern's personal space and putting the larger man off his base of support. Stern might be furious, but Dean was radiating the kind of rage that only a threat to his baby brother could engender, and Stern actually stumbled back a step in the face of his outrage. "You try that crap when his back is turned, you little shit? Why don't you try that with me?"

"Don't get sanctimonious with me, Winchester," Stern snarled, yanking his arm away. "I know all about you and your brother. Hell, you're whole damn family's never been anything but trouble."

Dean's eyebrows rose, his eyes widening. "What the fuck is your problem, man?"

"You're my problem. What kind of hunter makes deals with demons, huh?" Stern snapped. Thrusting out one beefy arm, he pointed an accusing finger at Sam, but kept his gaze locked on Dean's face. "He was dead. He should have stayed dead." Sam froze as Dean went utterly, almost inhumanly still in front of him. "He should have stayed dead," Stern repeated, "and so should you. Why didn't you just stay in Hell where you belonged? Why'd you have to crawl back up here like some filthy demon and fuck everything up for the rest of us? Why don't you go back to Hell and stay there this time?"

Each word landed on Dean with visible force of a blow. All of the color drained out of his face and he swayed slightly, clearly as unprepared for such a verbal attack as he _had_ _been_ prepared for a physical one. At the same time, a fire awoke in Sam's gut, a fire that rapidly burned its way through his entire body, engulfing his mind and freeing the searing rage that guilt had temporarily caged. How dare Stern question Dean's miraculous return? How _dare_ he question Dean at all? Dean had been rescued by angels. Angels! God himself knew that Sam's heroic big brother didn't belong in Hell, and yet Stern had the unmitigated gall to tell Dean that he should go back there, that he _deserved _damnation. Stern called Dean a demon, but it was the other man who was the monster. With a roar, Sam brushed past Dean and launched himself at Stern.

How long the fight lasted, he could not say. For what felt like an endless time, all Sam knew was rage and all he felt was the impact of flesh on flesh, the crack of bone and the taste of blood. Hands grabbed at him, and he jerked away, determined not just to eliminate his enemy but to obliterate him, to obliterate anything and everything that dared to hurt or threaten Dean. Still, hands pulled at him. Sam responded with an undercut and followed up with a roundhouse that could have dislocated his target's jaw. At the last moment, he realized that it was Dean he was aiming at and managed to twist to the side, missing his brother and tripping over his own feet as his momentum carried him off balance. Dean caught him as he fell, and he leaned back against his brother's chest, his own heaving as adrenalin pumped unchecked through his body. He was ready to continue the fight, more than ready, but a quiet, "Sam, no," whispered in his ear gave him pause. He'd been the one fighting, but Dean sounded exhausted and something more alarming. Weary. So Sam just sat there and let Dean think that he was too tired to continue, but he watched Stern with hatred seething in his blood.

Stern, bleeding from mouth and nose alike, was directly in front of him and just a few feet away. The other hunter was struggling to his feet with Bobby's help, though it was an open question whether Bobby's primary focus was helping him stand or making certain that he didn't attempt to continue the fight. The question was answered when Stern lunged forward only to be brought up short by Bobby's arm across his windpipe. Stern backed off and tried to shake Bobby loose, though he seemed to be trying not to hurt the older hunter. For his part, Bobby clung like a limpet, and Stern was clearly in worse shape than Sam, tired and flagging. That combined with his clear desire not to hurt the older man put him at a distinct disadvantage.

"Let me loose," he growled. "I'm done. I'm _done _I tell you!"

"You going to behave sensibly?"

"Sensible?" Stern said as Bobby finally released him. "The only sensible thing would be sending those two back where they belong."

"Mike, be reasonable. I know you're upset about Pam's death, but this ain't the way to handle it. You need to – "

"He's violent, out of control!" Stern snapped, once more pointing an accusing hand at Sam.

"Damn it, Mike, what the Hell do you expect when you attack the kid's brother like that, right in front of him? And as I recall it, you threw the first punch."

"You're really going to side with them? They got Pam killed, Bobby! She knew! She knew that the Winchesters would be the death of her. They stole her sight and it was only a matter of time before they stole her life, too." Sam drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, to tell Stern exactly what he thought of him, but he stopped when Dean squeezed his shoulder. Looking up and behind him, he saw that his brother was still pale, still pissed, but also intent as he listened and watched the others hunters.

"Pam knew the risks, Mike," Bobby insisted. "She knew – "

"She knew they were bad news, but she didn't want to let you down, so she helped out anyway. Why are they even here? That kid, as you call him, is a monster!"

"There's no call for talk like that, Mike Stern. We're all hunters here. We all know the risks, what can happen on even the best planned job. You can't blame all of this on them."

"Hunters? Really?" He pointed at Sam where Dean was still holding onto him. "Is that a hunter? A man partnering up with a demon, trusting a demon to watch his back. Doesn't sound like a _hunter_ to me. Protecting a bunch of vegan vampires was one thing, but he's a monster. A psychic freak!"

"Well, that's a fine damn thing to say!" Bobby bellowed. "And here I thought you loved Pam!"

"I do, God damn it!"

"She was a psychic. Did that make her a monster?"

"It's not the same, Bobby!"

"How?"

"Because _she_ was a good person."

Sam flinched, his mind suddenly spiraling back to the moment of Pamela's death, to her assertion that his intentions weren't as good as he thought they were, to her insistence that there was something wrong with him. Dean said what he was doing was unnatural. The angels said it was wrong and dangerous, that God wanted him to stop. But Dean was weak and confused, and the angels were far from perfect. At times, they were little better than two-faced hypocrites who'd threatened to send Dean back to Hell and treated Sam like a second-class citizen because of what Azazel had done to him, as if he'd chosen to become what he was, as if Azazel hadn't forced all of this on him when he was an infant. So what was right? How could he know what was right? If someone like Pamela thought he was making a mistake…

"She was a good person," Stern repeated, "and that kid is evil."

"You bastard," Dean snarled, and suddenly it was Sam holding Dean back, stopping him from going after Stern with murder in his eyes. "You no good son of a – "

"Get out of here, Mike," Bobby said tiredly. "I'll call you when Pamela's body is ready for you to take, but for now, just get out of here."

"You're kicking me out?" Stern said, hands clenching and unclenching. He looked poleaxed. Leaning down, he scooped his hat up from where it had fallen onto the gravel. "Why not them?" he asked, gesturing with the hat. "This isn't their home, and I – "

"Like hell it's not. Now get out of here, Mike, before I get my shotgun."


End file.
